


Let's play a game

by yesfir



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Animal Death, Avoxes, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Death, Childhood Schizophrenia, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Consensual Underage Sex, Drowning, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hanging, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Pedophilia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Schizophrenia, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Sexual Slavery, Starvation, Violence, Vomiting, all the fucked up shit, and all that this entails, creepy puppets, for both canons ahahaha, implied/referenced animal cruelty, it's hunger games yo, kind of obviously, pet death, sob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 117,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesfir/pseuds/yesfir
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider, you're the victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, and the only thing you care about is keeping yourself and your brother safe.Your name is Dirk Strider, and the Capitol made the mistake of turning you into a killing machine and then giving you every reason to want to see it burn.Your name is Jake English, and surviving to become the single most popular victor in the Capitol might just have been a fate worse than death.Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you're going to be the next Head Gamemaker no matter whose corpse you have to step over to get there.Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you know you're going to die.Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you refuse to let them kill you.





	1. Picking battles

**Author's Note:**

> Oh lord, I finally have a first chapter for this, let's see how well I'll balance having two fics running at the same time. Fingers crossed and all that.
> 
> I'll add more tags and warnings later, but yeah, because this is a Hunger Games setting we're starting out strong with the canon typical death, violence, and sexual abuse of minors. Also implied child abuse because Dave's childhood is unsurprisingly still shit. Oh, and an emetophobia heads-up as well. Proceed with caution.

Your name is Dave Strider, you’re from District Two, and you’re the winner of the 72nd Hunger Games. That was one year ago, and already you are going to serve as a mentor. Not because there aren’t plenty of candidates to go around, Two is a career district after all, but because you insisted on it. You don’t care about the years to come, you don’t care about anything else; all you know is that this year, it has to be you. Because this year, there’s nothing you can do to stop your twin brother from volunteering as a tribute.

Fuck knows you’ve tried. You’ve reasoned, argued, bargained, threatened and pleaded, and the end result is still the same. Dirk isn’t listening, and if you’re to be honest with yourself, you’re not sure that you would’ve been any more receptive before your own games. You can still feel the wind of the building thunderstorm on Reaping Day, one year ago, as you gazed up at the Justice Building with your hair whipping around your face. “Alright,” you said, careful to maintain your level tone even though excitement and nerves made you feel like a bunch of electrical wires coiled together into the crude form of a human. “Let’s flip for it. You or me. Let’s do this man.”

“Let’s make it happen,” Dirk agreed, and the coin left your thumb and spun through the air, catching the gleam of the sun as it briefly broke through the blanket of clouds above. Him or you, you or him. Who was going first into the arena? The only way it would be fair was to let destiny decide it for you – you were both exactly as good, exactly as strong, exactly as ready.

Which is to say, you weren’t ready at all.

You swallow hard, fighting against the taste of bile at the back of your mouth, fighting even harder against the clinging shadows at the back of your mind. It had seemed so easy when you stepped forward, nodded at the escort and said, “Yeah, it’s me. I’m the one doing the tribute thing. I volunteer. Let’s get this show on the road.” Like it was really just that easy. As if the whole thing was actually just a show, just a funny little pantomime played out each year. Of course you’d thought that you were taking it seriously, that what you really wanted was the battle to the death, the real shit. Well, not exactly _wanted_; it was just what you were born to do, right? Your Bro had already drilled it into your head that _want_ didn’t enter into it. You weren’t just gonna go in there and win, you were also going to make sure that some other, weaker person didn’t have to go in there instead of you, getting themselves killed. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? That was why both you and Dirk had to go in there even though you were twins and would both turn eighteen the same year. Because you were stronger than anyone else, and even if you’re from District Two there’s always a chance that you might die.

There’s always a chance. You feel sick, watching as the escort fishes around in the bowl after a name, as if that matters at all. Almost everyone is already looking at Dirk. A couple are also looking at the girl who just volunteered to go in as the female tribute, but most avoid looking at her at all. They know she doesn’t matter, that she’s not going to be the victor. By the pallor of her skin and her frail smile, she knows it too. Someone has to do it, there has to be two tributes, but this year just as last year, a Strider will wear a crown at the end of the game. That’s what everyone is thinking.

Last year, the two of you had offered to fight anyone who thought they were better than you for the chance to go into the arena. Knowing who your Bro is, not that many had been eager to take you up on it.

Your Bro stands next to you on the platform, because of course he does. He’s a previous victor, after all. He’s the one person in all of Panem who has been a victor _twice. _He went in the first time at fifteen, and then volunteered again the next year. At the time there was no actual rule to prevent him from doing that, so it was allowed. After he won again, even faster and more ruthlessly than the time before, there suddenly was a rule, probably because the good people of the Capitol felt like the game had been too predictable and too short. Or maybe even those bloodthirsty fucks had found their limit for what they could stomach; maybe your Bro’s efficiency made them realize for just a moment that this wasn’t any kind of game. It was a _slaughter._

Who knows?

Your Bro moves a tiny fraction, letting you know he’s looking at you. The bright sunlight above sets his hair alight, the same white-blond hair in lazy curls as yours, makes it look like a really untidy halo. Like some sort of twisted angel. That’s a tough image to shake, because you know that’s probably how he sees it, in a way. Why not go back in the game, if he’s already proved that he can do it, if that means another year when someone else is spared? Why not kill his opponents as quick as possible, save them from suffering, make sure the whole twisted spectacle is over before anyone can starve to death or die of their wounds? Fuck, the only reason anyone survived the first day of his Bro’s second Hunger Games was that some of the kids were smart enough to leg it for the fucking treeline the moment the cannon went off. Everyone who went for the Cornucopia was dead within minutes.

If you think of it like that, it almost makes sense. It almost seems like the merciful thing to do. Except then you remember that those were kids, those were real people being put down one after another like rats in a barrel. Then you remember that one girl managed to keep running for two whole days, running until she dropped, and that’s when your Bro caught up with her. You remember the camera zooming in on her face, the fear and exhaustion in her eyes, and his complete lack of expression when he knelt down and slit her throat. And it doesn’t matter if the whole thing was kind of this big FUCK YOU to the Capitol because they didn’t get weeks of their drawn-out blood sport that year, all they got was a lot of kids killed quickly and efficiently during the span of two days; without drama, without excitement, without so much as a word. It doesn’t matter because your brother still killed every single one of twenty-three tributes in his second Games, and there are no reasons, no statements, that can make something like that okay.

Fuck. _Fuck._ You need to calm down or you’re going to throw up. Dirk is stepping forward, his mouth is moving, but you can’t hear him. You’ve got to keep it together for his sake, no matter what. It’s for real now. Everyone is so sure he’s going to win, and you know that logically that’s the most likely outcome, but he’s your brother. You remember him as a child, when he would abandon his sword drills to run and pet one of the working horses dragging spoil from the quarry. You remember his completely quiet tears at the dead of night when his favorite horse was sent to the knackers after it broke its leg, when you lay awake and quietly stroked his forehead, neither of you saying anything in case Bro woke up. You remember chasing each other up and down the mountain slopes, playing obscure and dumb games that no one else could follow, making jokes and actually laughing when no one saw you. You remember the day the crow died, how he held you as you sobbed inconsolably against his chest. How he glared at Bro and whispered, ‘One day I’ll kill him’, and you both knew that he wouldn’t, but it still meant something that he said it.

You remember, and even though Dirk was always the harder of the two of you, the stronger, the one who knew how to be ruthless, you know you have to do this. You have been in the Games and he hasn’t, so there’s no way for him to possibly know what he’s volunteering to do. He’s your only family – at least the only family that counts – and he’s your only friend. There’s always a chance of dying in the arena, no matter how good you are, and you can’t allow that to happen. No matter what you have to do, Dirk is coming out of there alive.

* * *

You’d been so disoriented and weak when the hovercraft lifted you out of the arena, at first it hadn’t even registered that it was all over, that you had won. When people grabbed your arms you gritted your teeth and fought, squirming and kicking. They were only vague figures towering over you, your vision seriously impaired after that acid trap sprayed its payload right in your face. Your last fight had been a desperate, half-blind struggle, where you were forced to rely on your hearing and your reflexes, and some sixth sense you couldn’t even properly name. You’d thought you heard the other boy gasp and collapse, but now there were these hands holding you down, these bright lights shining in your face, and maybe this was it. Maybe this was how you died.

“Mr Srider, we’re just trying- It’s pointless. He’s panicking. Knock him out.”

A needle slid into your arm, something burned inside and stretched your skin, and then darkness followed.

When you woke up, you could see again. Actually, your vision was better than it had ever been before; you’d always suspected that you might’ve needed glasses, and this only confirmed it. Everything was so sharp. As you got off the hospital bed and made your halting, rubber-legged way over to the wash basin and mirror, you tried to remember what had happened, but it was as if the whole thing had momentarily scabbed over. For a few blessed, disoriented seconds you hadn’t remembered a single fucking thing. You’d been free.

Then you looked in the mirror. The hideous scars you’d been expecting – why? – weren’t there; your skin was smooth and unmarked. You looked hale and healthy. But your eyes… you’d expected your own amber irises looking back at you, the same colour as Dirk’s, as Bro’s. But instead a pair of unnatural-looking red eyes squinted back in shock and disbelief, the color of fresh blood out of a wound.

_Then_ you remembered.

After vomiting up the nothing in your stomach, gagging horribly over a few mouthfuls of bile as you leaned on the sink and tried not to fall over, you stumbled back to your hospital bed. Next to it, on the nightstand, was a pair of shades. They looked just like yours, the ones you’d taken into the arena as a token, but it couldn’t possibly be the real ones. They were the only reason, probably, why that acid trap hadn’t completely taken your whole eyes all in one go, and surely it must’ve damaged them at least a bit. But maybe they’d fixed your shades just like they’d fixed your face and your eyes. Maybe there was nothing physical that the games could break that the Capitol couldn’t put back together again. That thought seemed like a joke when you felt like there was a gaping chasm right behind your eyes, and you knew that there was no tech master or surgeon in the world who could fill it. Knowing the Capitol, they wouldn’t even try. The important thing, you suspected, was that you _looked_ fine again.

You fumbled with the shades, wanting to put them on again, but your fingers appeared to want exactly none of it.

A door you hadn't been able to see suddenly slid open silently, and a person with blonde head fuzz shaved so close it showed the bright pink tattoos on their light brown scalp came walking in, stopping in surprise when they saw you awake. They were wearing a lab coat and the little plaque they wore read “Dr. Lalonde”. You couldn’t tell if it was a woman or a man at first, and later found out that they considered themselves to be neither, which honestly didn’t seem all that strange compared to all the all the genuinely weird shit people in the capitol got up to. Seemed practical, really, deciding not to bother with all that nonsense. Anyway, arguing with people about shit that concerned them and literally no one else seemed to you to be a.) pointless and b.) rude.

“Look at you, already on your feet and everything. That’s a victor for you. I’m Doctor Lalonde.” They reached out a hand, and you noticed that they had a little cat face painted onto each of their pale pink nails. “I’ve been in charge of reconstructing your face and eyes, as well as overseeing putting the rest of you together. You’d gotten yourself pretty banged up.” They winked, and their eyes were pink too. You lifted your hand to your own face, remembering the bright red irises.

“Okay, right, thanks for all that, but is it possible I got the one cosmetic doctor in all the Capitol who happens to be color blind? ‘Cause I’ve gotta tell you, that sounds like one hell of a drawback in your field. Not to tell you how to do your job or anything, but… yeah. Seems like a bit of an oversight, if you pardon my insensitive language.”

They blinked, at first confused, and then let out a small giggle. “Oh, man, right. Your eyes. Sorry, that must’ve been hella weird to wake up to. I was totes going to, like, break it to you gently and everything! I’d made up this whole speech, you just have to believe that it would’ve been real sweet and suuuuuper sensitive. Promise.” They sat down unasked next to you on the bed, crossing their legs as if they were the teenager and not you. You were uncomfortable, because it finally sank in that you were naked. They didn't seem to notice. “Anyways, basically what happened was, you came in here and needed your eyes fixed, like, stat. Sulfuric acid is some nasty stuff, yanno? Only I needed some implants to fix them because they were way ruined, and wouldn’t you know it, they didn’t have _any_ in your super pretty eye color. _Major _oversight. I’m standing there feeling like an idiot, and we gotta go go go, your eyes aren’t gonna save themselves, so I just… pick one! I went with red since that was the closest I could get, and I figured with eyes like that you’d def feel kind of let down if I just put some boring brown or blue eyes in you. So yeah. I’m really super mega extra sorry about it, and if you want I’ll see what I can do about getting you some amber replacements, but uh… I gotta be real, as a doctor I wouldn’t recommend it. We’ve fixed everything up nice, but there’s still some damage there that we couldn’t just magic away no matter what we did, and any other major surgery on your eyes could still fuck your vision up. So… that’s up to you, kid.”

You felt anger bubbling up, wanting so desperately to have some kind of target, something to fight to make you feel less helpless. Your hands were shaking, shaping themselves around a sword that wasn’t there, and you remembered how all that blood had made the hilt stick to your skin as if you were never going to be able to let go. You’d hid in the shadows of the broken buildings around you, trying to control your breathing, and deep down you’d been sure that you were never getting out of there.

Looking over at Dr Lalonde’s concerned face, gazing at you from what suddenly seems like an impossible distance, you knew that you were right. You were never getting out. The anger ran out of you all in on go as if you were a wet paper bag, your shoulders sagged, and you felt so tired. You weren’t actually angry with the person sitting next to you, this perky Capitol surgeon with their bright pink eyes and excitable vocal patterns, not really. They were just a handy stand-in for the arena, for the President, for the Capitol, for the emptiness they couldn’t possibly fill, for the whole shitty situation that had changed you forever and now you would have it rubbed in your face every time you looked in a mirror.

But more than anything, they were a stand-in for you. You did this to yourself. You volunteered.

* * *

You walk fast toward the station where the train is already waiting, passing by the crowds with peacekeepers flanking the both of you. There’s no one to say goodbye to at the Justice Building; your Bro doesn’t have anything to say to Dirk that he hasn’t already said. Besides, while he won’t be coming with you on this train, they’ll be sure to bring him in for interviews and mingling with other victors in a couple of days. The only other goodbye to speak of you have already seen to early this morning, leaving a small bunch of flowers and a whole lot of unspoken words at your mother’s grave. Neither of you remember what she looked like, and Bro refuses to talk about her at all. You’re not even sure what exactly his relationship to her was, if he was her brother or son or cousin or what. Fuck, for all you know he could actually be your dad. It’s not like he’s ever given you a straightforward answer regarding the question of your paternity either, so you suppose it’s possible.

You kind of hope not, even though you’d have a hard time articulating why.

Dirk walks silently next to you, which isn’t exactly a novelty since he does a lot of things silently. It’s just that right now, that silence is growing into this whole other, oppressive thing that is slowly weighing the both of you down. You’ve got to do something about it. Even though you’re pissed as hell that he’s going in despite everything you’ve said, you don’t want him to think that you resent him for it. You can’t afford that kind of distance between you. You need to do this as a team.

You pass by a group of younger kids, and one of them tilts his head to clear his black hair out of his eyes, staring pointedly at Dirk and fingering a knife. You’ve seen him before, training against some other kids. He’s got some skill with that knife, you’d guess he’ll end up volunteering one day. “Who’s that guy?” you wonder idly, thinking it’s something fairly neutral to help you break the silence.

Dirk raises his eyebrows slightly. “That’s the kid who got called before I volunteered, I think. Jack Noir. If he’s pissy about me showing him up, he’s an idiot. He’ll get his chance in a year or two.”

You nod, glancing back at the girl walking silently behind you. You’re her mentor too, and that thought is eating into your conscience like the cool burn of acid, because you’re not here to try to save her. She must know that. Just like the silent girl who followed you into your Games must’ve known that your Bro had already judged her lacking, disposable. It’s not fair, it’s never fair, and some people will always have more odds in their favor. Compared to your brother, she’s the unlucky one, just like someone from Eleven or Twelve has basically no chance compared to her. The game is always rigged, and there can only be one victor. Nothing can change that. Acting as if she’s not even there won’t change that, and it also makes you a complete tool.

You turn around and allow the corners of your mouth to tilt into something that could almost be called a smile, reaching out a hand to her as you keep walking backwards toward the train. “So you already know my name, but for the purposes of being civilized and observing the niceties I guess we can pretend for a moment, right? Dave Strider. And you are?”

“Bianca,” she says and takes your pale hand in her freckled brown one. Both her voice and her handshake are surprisingly steady, her head held high. She’s tall and broad-shouldered, with hair that surrounds her head like a big honey coloured cloud, her eyes dark and inscrutable. “Bianca Malika.”

“Nice to meet you,” you lie, and her lips tremble in a suppressed smile. She gets the joke. She knows you don’t want to have to kill her. Fuck this. “Hey, how about we sit down a while later and you can tell me what your specialties are, what you do best and so on, and we can work out a strategy for you. How’s that sound?” You’ll draw the line at actively sabotaging her, because it’s a dirty fucking thing to do and in the end it won’t make one sorry lick of difference, will it? There will come a moment when you decide to prioritize Dirk over her, there’s no changing that, but until then you’ll do what you can.

“Thank you,” she says. It’s all that you can offer, and she’s smart enough not to ask for more.

* * *

The moment 73rd Hunger Games has begun, Dirk is off his platform and running, but not toward the Cornucopia. He’s heading for Bianca, and the moment she sees him coming she goes motionless like cornered prey. No, you think as you lean closer to the screen and forget to breathe, like a statue; like a monument. She’s the daughter of stone cutters, and she carves herself into your mind where she stands, tall and proud. While the bloodbath commences only fifty yards away or so, she and Dirk fight hand to hand, fast and brutal, no quarter given on either side. This isn’t a show, it’s a transaction, and it’s over within minutes. The cameras show her neck being efficiently snapped from several different angles, while the commentators crow that this is a classic Strider move, cutting briefly to your Bro doing the same thing, and then you. Even though they keep talking through it, you can feel that peculiar crunch and pop in your very bones.

When the screen once more shows Dirk, he’s bending down over her body and pulling her token off her finger, a simple gold ring with pearls. One commentator speculates that perhaps it’s a trophy, but you know what it’s really all about. Instead of the ring being returned with her coffin to her parents, Dirk will return it himself, and he will look into their eyes as he does so. It’s about taking responsibility for what he’d done. You must do the same.

You look over at the folder containing Bianca’s strategy, the careful plan she and you had made together, with a couple of pages written by her stylist and prep team, a handful of notes you’d made during her interview, and a list of sponsors who had shown interest in her. You reach over and open it, and a small card with a garish looking teddy bear on the front falls out of it. Inside, someone has written, ‘_You were a victor to us before anyone else_’ in swirly letters and glittery ink, and it’s signed with three different kiss marks in different shades of lipstick. A congratulation card from her prep team in case she won. The same three colours had been worked into her braids during her interview, you remember distantly.

You’ll get rid of the card and the sketches for her different costumes, you decide, because her family doesn’t need to see that shit. But you pry her smiling photograph from the inside of the folder. Decent photos in color and everything are hard to come by in the districts, and they might not have a single one of her. Giving it to her parents is the decent thing to do, even if it’s a piss poor apology for having been able to do nothing for her. Nothing at all. There was no time.

You know why Dirk did it, though. He’d meant it as a sort of mercy. It meant she never had to make any difficult decisions, never had to sully her hands, never had to suffer more than necessary. It also means that you never had to make that call, never had to decide to let her die so that Dirk could live. It will never be up to you because Dirk took it out of your hands. Just like Bro, he will don the slipped halo and wash his hands in blood if he has to.

He’s in the small valley containing the Cornucopia now, easily dodges a flung spear, parries the hand trying to plunge a dagger into his gut, kicks his opponent hard in the knee and wrestles her weapon out of her hand. You look away as he buries it in her eye, but not for long, because he’s fighting for his life and you need to see, need to remember. He pulls the knife out, barely noticing the spray of blood that covers his face and his neck, and flings it into the thigh of his next attacker. Doesn’t bother to finish the job, that’s not the priority right now. He’s digging through the loot surrounding the Cornucopia looking for…

The moment his hand closes around the hilt of a sword, you feel some sort of tension start to gradually ease out of your chest. That’s it. You repeat it to yourself aloud. “That’s it.” Dirk bends down and peeks into a backpack, then slings it onto his back where it makes a heavy metal sound at the moment of impact. Your arena had been a more urban landscape, a mix of different ruins in varying stages of decay, a perfect setting for stealth and traps. But Dirk’s is a maze of bare, sharp rocks with a network of metal structures far above bridging the chasms. You can tell it’ll be a race of who manages to make it to the top, because anyone who stays down low will be at the mercy of those above, and then the survivors will settle it all on the narrow metal bridges. So Dirk’s pack probably contains climbing gear and maybe some rations if he’s lucky, because so far you haven’t seen a single thing to eat.

You lean back in your sofa as he carves his way away from the Cornucopia, leaving a couple more kills behind him. Next he needs to find an undisturbed place to start to climb, away from the rest of the careers who are watching him go from the other end of the valley, calculating. They’ll probably come for him first, though it’s possible they’ll make another attempt to make him join them. You know he won’t. If there’s anything Bro has drilled into your heads, it’s that allies will only slow you down, and in the end they will stab you in the back. How can it be any other way, with only one victor?

You hear the swish of your door sliding open, footsteps across your carpet, and you sigh quietly. Your guest is early. Still, it won’t do to make him feel unwelcome. As always, he’s paid a lot to be here, and you need to keep him in a good mood. As long as he wants you, he’s got a vested interest in keeping Dirk alive as well.

So you lean into his hand on your neck and hold back your shiver of disgust, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t a mentor keep an eye on his charge for a little while longer?” you ask, keeping your tone dry and teasing.

“He’s your brother, you know he’s going to survive just fine. Besides, I think I’ve already told you that I’ll make sure of it.” He tilts your chin up with one finger, breathing sickly sweet smoke into your face. Does he fucking have to smoke in your own goddamn home? But of course you can’t tell him to shove his disgusting cigarette somewhere intimate and painful, no matter how much you want to. “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” he says, and you just raise your eyebrows at him instead of telling him what a sick fuck he is. It’s pretty bad when the fact that he’s at least twice your age is a secondary concern.

“Yeah, everyone tells me he’s the charming one,” you tell him, which is too much of a blatant lie to actually piss him off. “That’s why you want to see him, right? You’re sick of my boorish and inelegant ways and long for the sweet poetry of Dirk’s conversation.”

Despite how that’s obviously a joke, he shrugs, arranging his slicked-back hair with his free hand. “For a district boy you really aren’t that bad. I mean, it’s not like I expect your conversation to be as riveting as that of someone raised in the Capitol, but I don’t mind listening to you. I’m actually really patient with you in that regard, so I don’t see why you can’t just give me credit for that.”

You roll your eyes behind your shades, glancing briefly at the TV screen again. It’s following someone else now, so presumably that means that Dirk’s current status is relatively uneventful. Covering ground, probably.

“I’m being real patient with the fact that you’re still wearing your clothes, Cronus, so maybe we can both give each other credit for being the goddamn saints we are. Or you could just get to it, that’s also an option. I’m waiting. Shit, I’m _languishing._ If I perish before you fuck me, they’re going to raise a fucking statue in my honor right on this spot. _Here lies a horny teenager who never got the cock he rightly deserved._ Imagine how embarrassing that would be for you.”

You shoot off at the mouth because it’s easier that way, because he’ll feel smug and focus on something else than talking to you, and you can go through the motions and not think about the girl you just watched die, your brother in the Games, the ghosts that scream your name whenever you close your eyes. Just let it happen. Just let it be. You need his money to get Dirk gifts in the arena, so just tune out his hands on your body, his lips on your neck, don’t swear at him even when he stubs out his cigarette on your collarbone and laughs. Just let shit flow. You’ll gladly do this and anything else that’s necessary, if that means your brother comes home alive. You’re all bought and sold, inside the arena and outside too, because you never really leave. You just become a tribute to the rich and bored in the Capitol instead of the Gamemakers. Another puppet cradled in President Scratch's immaculate white gloves.

This is the one thing you didn’t mention to Dirk when you tried to get him to not volunteer, even though it’s possibly the one thing that might’ve truly swayed him. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say it, couldn’t find the words to explain that the freedom he now thought you had was false. That your visits to the Capitol were nothing more than another iron bar in your window, another stitch in your lips. Maybe you’re afraid that he’d blame himself for not insisting on going in first, for not being able to protect you from this.

Maybe you’re afraid that if he went in anyway, he wouldn’t be fighting as hard to save a life that no longer belongs to him.

You don’t know. You sink on your knees on the carpet in front of the TV, reaching over and pressing the mute button on the remote. But you see the light of the screen reflected in Cronus’ eyes as he leans back, know that he keeps watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of your brother. You’ll do anything, that's what you tell yourself. Absolutely anything. And you hope that one day, Dirk will forgive you.


	2. Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not here to make friends. You learned early on that friends were not an option. That's the only way of surviving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup sup, MAJOR warning for animal death/pet death in this chapter. also hoo boy child abuse.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’re not playing a game. That’s the first thing you learned from your Bro, the one thing that’s worth remembering in the arena. Forget where you came from, forget who you are, forget the names of all these other children locked in here with you. You’re not playing a game, but they are. It’s a cruel, vicious, unfair game, but they still think they’re playing it, and anyone playing the Hunger Games is also a piece in it. The distinction means that with care, you can move them around the board just like a Gamemaker would.

It’s simple. All you have to do is not pretend there are any rules. Most people want there to be rules in life, some sort of generally accepted blueprint for what you ‘should’ do, how you ‘should’ act in every situation. Even in the arena. They look at the shape of this place, the way the Gamemakers have designed it, and they make assumptions about what they ought to be doing based on these facts, they respond to their surroundings, not realizing that this isn’t actually strategy. It’s _herding, _and they sure as fuck aren’t the ones controlling the dogs.

The whole point is that there are no rules. There is no way you’re required to act, not a single action that’s unthinkable, no matter how brutal. And you absolutely do not have to join the other careers just because you’re from District Two. Last year, you know Dave had remained aloof but chatty, potentially because he genuinely has no idea how to shut up whenever someone pays him the slightest bit of attention, so they’d assumed he was part of the pack. Once they were in the game, he’d waited until he and the rest of them were alone before loudly announcing that they could choose to fight him or choose to run, he didn’t give a fuck, but they had until he’d counted to sixty to decide. That had jarred them, they had argued, and when a couple of them made the choice to just to attack and decide for the rest, that meant that they weren’t coming at him in sync. They got in each others’ way, made mistakes, and Dave had used that against them.

It was ballsy, certainly, and you have to admit that some tactical brilliance went into it, but it also cost him a lot. He came out of it with broken ribs and a broken sword, albeit with all the rations the other careers had managed to secure. You know why he did it, too. Despite everything you’d been taught, everything Bro had drilled into your minds and into your bones, Dave hadn’t been able to separate himself from the game. You know that he thought it was more fair like that, to give them a chance to face him head on or face him later, and you love him deeply for it.

But you’re not Dave. He’s the good one.

Anyway, that wouldn’t work a second time around. You’re absolutely certain that they have already decided when to gang up and try to kill you in your sleep. So you had studiously ignored them during the preparations in the Capitol, only acknowledging them if there was an opportunity to humiliate them thoroughly. Now you’re certain they’re tracking you as you make your way through the crevasses and over slopes of slippery scree, looking for a good place to ascend. First rule of traversing mountainous terrain is to never scale inhospitable and impossible fucking precipices unless you absolutely have to. Of course this place is engineered by Gamemakers, so there’s not going to be an easy option, but there’s sure to be a not completely suicidal alternative.

Seems like the people in charge kind of want you to win too, doesn’t it? Putting you in a mountainous landscape that could practically be your own backyard and all. But it could also be that they’re trying to make you overconfident. Or both. Either. Whatever makes the game more fun.

You avoid the caves you stumble upon, because all that’s missing is huge glowing signs reading, ‘GET YOUR MUTTATION BATS HERE’. It’s a tempting recourse for anyone feeling frightened and exposed in this barren goddamn wasteland, and therefore an obvious trap. Anyway, you’re not hiding away in a cave and waiting for the other tributes to die off. You’re finishing this game as quickly as possible.

You find a promising crack in running up the side of a cliff face, creating a winding trail for you to follow toward the distant peaks and winding structures above. You follow it, keeping a steady pace without hurrying, until the sky has darkened to a murky blue and there just isn’t enough light to keep going. Then you wedge yourself behind a sturdy outcrop, chewing on a couple of edible roots you’d found in the moist dirt of an old river bed. You’ve tried to avoid using any of the sparse rations in your backpack, but you’ve taken small sips of water from the flask. There’s a small bucket too, and a piece of soft cloth, and you can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. You know how quickly storms move in mountains, so you work quickly to suspend the cloth between three decently sized rocks, placing the bucket beneath. It’s not the most elegant device for rainwater harvesting, but it will do.

You press your back against the cliff and try to stay in whatever sparse cover the slight overhang offers you, because the night will be cold enough even if you’re not soaked to the bone. You had found a heat-reflecting sleeping bag in your pack, which you’d sliced open into something closer resembling a blanket with a small pang of regret. It’ll be less effective this way, but you cannot afford anything that restricts the movement of your legs.

The storm passes relatively quickly, leaving you with half a bucket of water. You drink what’s left in your flask and fill it up with the rain water, packing the cloth and bucket up neatly and shoving it in the backpack. The flask you attach to your belt with a quickdraw from the bag. Hoisting the rest of your equipment onto your back to have it with you if you need to make a quick escape, you clutch your sword in your hand and wait to fall asleep. It’ll be hard, you know that, because one of the few things you’ve actually struggled with is to fall asleep on command. Both you and Dave are poor sleepers in general, him with his fitful dreams and you who seem to always stay a little bit awake no matter how exhausted. But fatigue is also a killer, and you need to avoid it at all costs.

But of course, the Capitol won’t make it that easy. The anthem suddenly booms between the towering cliffs, and the starry sky above you lights up with the larger than life seal looming above you, a visible reminder of what you already know. No one in here truly belongs to themselves, not their bodies or their minds, not their past or their present. Even their choices will be tainted by the hands of the Gamemakers, their traps and their whims as they attempt to present this gory entertainment in the most exciting way possible to their adoring audience. All a tribute can do is to either dance to their tune and hope their steps appeal to someone out there, or to take a stand. Show that there is something about you, some small piece of your very self, which will not bend to their will. Even if you break, even if you’re already broken, turn your brokenness into a thousand splinters and let them feel it.

Bro had done it. So had Dave. You won’t fail them.

Its time to count the dead, and hope they will not follow you into your dreams.

* * *

You were eleven years old when Dave found the baby crow. At first he just lifted it up into a tree to keep it out of the way of predators, thinking its mother would come back for it. But the next day when the two of you went back, it was still there, shivering in the early morning chill.

“Poor little shit must be abandoned,” Dave said, reaching out toward it and stroking its back with his thumb. It flinched, but appeared to tolerate the contact, probably knowing it didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“Don’t,” you replied flatly, knowing that look on his face far too well. He’d always been so soft deep down, with no capacity to see suffering without trying to do something about it. You couldn’t help but admire this, the way he retained this gentleness no matter what happened to him, but it was a major flaw for people like you. Bro had been pretty clear that Dave was going to have to shape up or shit like this was going to get him killed.

“It’s just a stupid bird,” he protested, scratching the little ball of black fluff between its eyes. “What’s the harm in making sure it stays alive? We can just stop by here and give it some food when we’re in the area. It’s not like we’re starving.” Not anymore, no. Now that you were old enough to hunt and scavenge for your own food, you almost never went hungry. Which was how you’d learned to hunt and scavenge in the first place, since Bro stopped making an effort to feed you when you got old enough to pick up a rock and throw it.

What’s the harm? You sighed and kept arguing with him because you know you ought to, but in reality you had already caved like you always did. Because you would do anything if it meant making Dave happier, even if it was something stupid that could end up hurting him in the long run. In the long run, there was no way to avoid Dave hurting, because that was just what your lives were like. So could you really be blamed for wanting to give him these moments that were a little bit less fucking awful?

What’s the harm? You knew the harm and so must he, surely. You saw the harm in it when Dave gave the bird a name – even if that name was Brainless Feathery Asshole, of BFA for short. You saw it when he trained it to sit on his shoulder and accept tidbits while he was cleaning his kill after an afternoon of hunting. You saw it when he complained bitterly about how the dumb creature kept shitting on his back and in his hair while perching on him, but never made a move to shoo it away. You definitely saw it when the idiot animal started to follow him around everywhere he went, handing him shiny rocks it found and squawking for treats.

That’s how Bro found out about it, of course. Maybe other district parents would object to their kid making friends with and feeding an objectively useless creature because it was a waste of resources, but that wasn’t the problem as far as Bro was concerned. The problem was, you weren’t allowed to have friends at all. Attaching yourself to anyone would only make you likely to do so again and again, and that kind of shit could get you killed. The best way of dying in the arena was to make a friend and start prioritizing their safety over your own. If you let yourself get attached, you would hesitate when the time came to kill them, giving them a chance to kill you first.

The only exception was your loyalty and love for each other. Bro didn’t exactly encourage it, but he allowed it, bearing in mind that you were never going to be in the arena together. Besides, the two of you relying so deeply on each other only served to isolate you from the rest of the district kids, so it served a purpose.

But caring for a living creature that was dependent on you, something that was weaker, something that had once been unable to fend for itself? Unacceptable. Something had to be done, that’s how Bro saw it. You could only watch in silence as he stated his ultimatum to Dave. He could kill the crow himself, do it neatly and cleanly with no pain at all, or he could let Bro do it. The implication was clear; if he chose the latter, there would be no mercy, no quick release. Instead there would be as much pain as Bro could think to inflict, for as long as it was possible to keep an animal alive while it was in agony. You both knew that Bro took no pleasure in inflicting pain, not as such, but he would do so if he felt there was a good enough reason. Your skin was riddled with proof of that.

You would’ve intervened, would’ve swept in and quickly killed the damn bird yourself to spare your brother, but you weren’t that stupid. Bro of course couldn’t kill _you_, but he’d found out long ago that the most effective way of punishing either of you was to hurt the other one. Nothing good would come of getting involved.

Dave knelt on the ground, the hard spring snow crunching under his weight, and the crow hopped hopefully toward him, tilting its head and cawing softly. He patted his lap, and it obediently flew into his arms, picking with its beak at his pockets to see if he had any scraps of food for it. Dave gently stroked its feathers, and though neither of you had cried since they were about six, you had learned better, there were now shiny paths of silent tears painted down his cheeks. His lips were white. You could see his shoulders tensing, his chest muscles convulsing with the force of held-back sobs. He wrapped his skinny, scarred arms around the bird, which shifted restlessly and pecked at his cheek, clearly not appreciating this hugging business, but nonetheless tolerating it because Dave was doing it. Trusting him.

Then he reached up, hands tightening quickly, and wrung its neck. It didn’t make a single sound, but as he let go its wings flapped spasmodically a few times. Then it lay still on the snow, its wings sticking out at awkward angles, the black eyes reflecting the empty sky above. Some fragments of feathers clung to Dave’s shaking hands as they slowly curled into fists. Bro inclined his head in approval, but you walked right past him as if he wasn’t there. Careful not to jostle the dead bird, you sunk down next to him, numb to the cold around you. You had no idea what to do, how to fix this, but you knew he didn’t have anyone else so you had to try. What if you… put your hand on his shoulder? Maybe that would help. Unsurprisingly, you’d never been taught how to comfort, so you’d always had to make it up as you went along. You knew Dave usually craved contact, always clinging when you were alone, so touch was the one thing you could think of.

You were wondering if maybe you’d overstepped when he tensed up, but then he flung himself at you and cried like a little child, gulping and gasping and making wretched little noises against your chest. He cried for the pet he’d allowed himself to love, cried for all the times you hadn’t since you both stopped, cried for all the pain that still was to come. He cried like it was the last time he’d ever be allowed to cry, because it was. Bro, turning away now, was giving him a pass just this once. It wasn’t likely to happen ever again. As he walked down the hill toward your house, an impassive pale figure under a cold sky, you had never hated him as much before. He had taken joy from your brother, and the worst part was that you understood why. The worst part was that in a way, you agreed with him. You saw yourself reflected in his ruthless logic, and there was nothing in the world you hated more than that.

Dave deserved better than that. Dave deserved better than you. But you were all he had.

“One day I’ll kill him,” you whispered hoarsely, as if that would carve the shape of him out of your heart, out of your head. As if there was any way of purging the poison he’d put there. As if you could stop yourself from turning out just like him, and leaving Dave more alone than he already was.

One day, you were sure that you would. And then his work would be complete.

* * *

You wake up in the early hours, earlier than you had anticipated, which immediately puts you on the defensive. What woke you up? A sound, you’re sure of it. At the edge of your dream, something slippery and sharp making its way into your mind and rattling your nerves. The cold has settled in your limbs, made you a little bit slower, but you jump to your feet and grip your sword in your hand. Your blanket slides to the ground, but you ignore it as you quickly search your surroundings, finding nothing out of place. That only makes you more wary, and you press yourself against the cliff, sword held low.

“Hey, Two. Up here.”

You spin around, taking two smart steps backwards toward the edge of the cliff. Your eyes scan the towering wall of rock, finding nothing until you reach the overhang. There, silhouetted against the brightening sky, a grinning boy your own age is looking down at you. One of the tributes from District One, a big brute who you hadn’t really considered a strategic threat, but you are forced to reconsider this judgment rather quickly. For one, he is bigger than you and has the high ground. For another, he’s aiming a crossbow right at you.

“Why don’t you just put down that sword nice and easy and walk down the path, alright? The rest of ‘em are waiting. See, we just want you to help us out for a while, then… well, you’ll still have a chance of getting away, right? Better than dying here and now.”

Ah, a clumsy attempt at blackmailing you into the career pack. Quaint, yet disappointing. Trying to knock aside the bolt with your sword is a gamble, and you decide to disregard that idea. But he should’ve picked an ordinary bow. A crossbow is more powerful and easier to aim, perfect in less skilled hands, but it has one major drawback. It’s too slow to reload.

You slip the heavy backpack off your shoulders, seemingly in compliance, and take a moment to fish out something small and tuck it in your waistband. Then you glance up again, sheathe your sword, and charge. You feel the slap of the bolt firing all the way up your spine, and throw up your hand to meet it. The upside of this is of course that the bolt doesn’t bury itself in your eye, but the downside is that you now have to climb a sheer cliff with an arrow in your hand. Fuck, it hurts. It’s not like you’re not used to pain, but having to force the butt of it against the palm of your hand as you struggle to find purchase on the rock, slipping on your own blood, is not in any way a nurturing goddamn experience.

When you reach the ledge, the other tribute has already backed away, smart enough at least to throw the crossbow aside. He’s got a spear with him, and wields it as if he knows how to use it, but on this narrow ledge over the abyss, all that reach isn’t doing him any good. Even with your wounded hand, the advantage is yours. He is stronger, though, and he could still knock you off this cliff even as you’re killing him.

Tearing the arrow out and pulling your sword, you watch his movements carefully, waiting for an opening. There’s no chance of backup, not up here, and the other careers are probably waiting quite a distance away to not arouse any suspicion. You can see in his eyes that he knows he miscalculated, that there’s no way he’s getting out of this unscathed, and that even if he survives it’s likely the other careers will turn on him. He grimaces angrily, and you smirk slightly.

“Yeah, maybe this plan of yours could’ve done with a bit more work. Some silent introspection and contemplating your position in life, specifically the one where your ass is stranded half a mile up a sheer cliff and some dude who actually knows what he’s doing is about to shove twenty-eight inches of cold steel through your torso.” The other boy snarls, lunging forward and trying to knock your sword out of the way. You lock the blade around the shaft, grab him by the wrist, and force him back against the cliff. You try to free your blade to slit his throat, but he jams the head of the spear into a crack in the rock to lock it in place, grinning at you as your wounded hand slips on the hilt.

He’s still wearing that expression as you grab the nut tool you tucked in your waistband and force it into his eye.

* * *

You could simply keep going, but you’re not putting up with another attempt to force you into compliance. So you trek back, leaving your backpack behind for now, because you’ve got something almost as heavy to carry with you. You were worried that your bleeding hand would be a problem, but of course Dave came through for you. The battle was barely over before a silver parachute came sailing toward you, almost blinding in the morning sunlight, carrying medicine for your wound.

You find the other careers waiting impatiently below a jutting cliff, not a great angle to attack from above, which is most likely deliberate. You don’t care. You’re not here to attack them. All you’re doing is delivering a message.

Letting the spear fly toward the cluster of tributes below, you watch it immediately turn steeply downwards, weighed down by its unorthodox epistle. It hits the ground with a loud thump and the crunch of breaking bone, as the speared head breaks open against the rocks and splatters everything around it in blood. One of the careers screams, another clutches her mouth as if trying not to vomit.

You make sure they see you before you turn your back on them.

* * *

You do not play the game. You refuse to get onto the steel structures, refuse to climb to the highest points and wait as if you’re engaged in some twisted version of a playground sport. Those you target and kill you pick off from below, from behind, from where they’re not expecting you. You’re sure the capitol citizens will get their balance act duels above the gaping chasms anyway, when the other tributes face each other; you count the cannon going off in the distance and add it to your own personal kills, counting down. Bro personally carving his way through his second Games might be impressive, but you find the approach unfeasible in this particular scenario. You won’t sit around and wait, but you don’t mind the other tributes doing some of the work for you, and you accept that exposure and hunger are more effective killers than any human will ever manage to be. It leaves you free to focus on the more important targets.

Of course, sometimes life doesn’t follow the script of even the most meticulous Gamemaker. Two weeks into the Games, you finally find the last tribute after half a day of painstaking tracking and searching. She's the one who is supposed to be the final flourish, but she is already barely alive. It looks like she had simply slipped while climbing, and now she lies curled up in a rocky crevasse, her mangled legs half covered by the small rock slide she pulled down after herself. You approach carefully even so, because the Capitol has healed gruesomely damaged victors before, and she could have a hidden weapon. Letting your guard down around someone seemingly helpless is also a really good way of dying, the 71st Hunger Games had made that very clear.

But even if she had one, she wouldn’t be able to use it. When you get closer, you’re hit by the scent of rotten flesh from a clearly infected wound on her left arm, most likely the reason she slipped, and her right arm is pinned under her body. Her eyes flutter as you kneel down and place your sword against her throat, and she lets out something that almost sounds like a sigh of relief.

“Hurts,” she mumbles. “But it’s… all good. Over soon.” She manages to open one eye, meeting your gaze dazedly. “...Right?”

“Yeah,” you agree, moving her short, unruly hair out of her eyes. Her skin is hot and clammy with fever. “Got anything you’d like to say?”

“Just wanna… go home now.” Her breathing is shallow. “Want to see… everyone. Want to see B-”

Whatever name she’s trying to say, it comes out as a pained groan and fades into silence. She’s still breathing, but only barely. She’s not coming back around, and it’s time to finish it now. You’re getting out of here. You’re both going home, for what it’s worth.

You slit her jugular, sitting back and watching her quietly bleed out as you wait for the hovercraft. You’re sure the people in the Capitol must be disappointed, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck if you actually tried. There’s an unpleasant part of you which feels let down too, but you try to tell yourself it’s just the sudden drop in adrenaline hitting you, making you feel weak and disoriented as your body tries to recover. It’s like withdrawal, just the physical effect of the anticlimactic end of your games, the lack of sleep and constant pressure finally catching up with you. If there’s a part of you that wanted it all to end in some sort of duel, something straightforward which you could simply have beaten, then you refuse to acknowledge it. You beat the Games. That’s all that matters.

The boom of the cannon tells you her heart has stopped. They play the cheers of the audience in the Capitol over the speakers, but it's as if you can hear the distance between you and them, and the sound reaches you muted and half-real. A couple of birds singing somewhere far above go silent, and a moment later the hovercraft materializes right overhead, descending rapidly. At first it extends a claw to pluck the other tribute from where she lies, and she dangles like a rag doll at the end of its chain, her neck wound gaping open. Then a ladder extends for you, and you stand up and grab it, almost grateful when the current running through it freezes you in place. You’re more tired than you thought, and you could feel your knees start to buckle right before you were lifted off the ground.

You’re a victor. You try out the thought, and find it far away and abstract, like imagining life on the moon, or like trying to recount a fairy tale you heard long ago. You’re a victor. It was never really about that, was it? You try to remember. Wasn’t it all about… something like… you were doing what you were supposed to do? You were doing your duty. You were fulfilling what your Bro had raised you for. You were- You are-

You’re going home to Dave. You’re going home alive. That was the point. You had to do it, there was no other option, but winning only ever mattered because you have someone waiting for you. Victor is just another word for survivor.

You’re going home.


	3. Treading water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never really understood the price of survival in the arena until you'd left it behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, we have hit jake's chapter, and that means even bigger noncon warnings than for the rest of the fic. it's never going to be particularly explicit, but i wanted to give a heads up anyway. also a drowing cw, i guess?

Your name is Jake English, and when you won the 68th Hunger Games, you had thought that the worst was all behind you. In many ways, you had been unbelievably lucky. At fourteen years old, most people didn’t stand a chance of winning the Games at all, and if you’re to be honest, you’d been no more talented or deadly than anyone else at that age. As a matter of fact, your little sister is fourteen now, and in many ways much better equipped than you had been. In your nightmares, your mind often tells you stories of what would’ve happened if the rules didn’t state that there had to be a male and a female tribute. If she hadn’t been too young. If Jade had been allowed to volunteer for you.

You have plenty of nightmares, though.

As it was, what you lacked in terms of cleverness or strength, you’d regrettably made up for in looks. Of course, you hadn’t really understood what was happening. All you’d known was that every time you faced some adversity, a new parachute would arrive that instantly solved your problems. Since most of your time in the Games was spent hiding from the other tributes, a majority of your obstacles were Gamemaker constructs, and there was always some warm clothes, medicine, a weapon, some food to help you through. Frightened and disoriented, you never wondered why that kept happening, just assumed your mentor was doing everything she could to help you, and kept walking.

When you reached the edge of the arena after weeks of walking, all you found was an enormous dam full of water, which at first didn’t seem like a huge help. Fresh water hadn’t been particularity scarce, and now you had nowhere else to go. All you could do was wait for the other tributes to come and find you. You’d sat down, dejected, but looked up again at the familiar beeping of a parachute. It landed heavily next to you, and in confusion you opened the capsule to find a small but compact metal contraption, and a brief note from your mentor.

_The red button activates the timer. You will have three hours to get away. You know what to do._

You sigh, gathering the sheets around you and sitting up, watching the red light of dawn creep across the sky outside the large picture windows. You’d woken up moments after the bomb went off in your dream, as you heard the roar of the water approaching. Despite how often you relive it all in your dreams, your memories of the event are still hazy. Had you really known what you were doing? You close your eyes, watching your hands fumble desperately as you hide the bomb in some scraggly vegetation clinging to the barren soil at the bottom of the dam, press the button, and the red digits on its small screen start to count toward zero.

You remember running down the mountain side, stumbling over roots and feeling the cold air claw at your lungs, but you can’t remember what you were thinking. If you’d understood what those silently ticking letters were actually counting down to. The water had been so cold once it arrived, knocking the breath from your lungs and tugging you under, and it was full of debris that pummeled your body. But swimming was still the one thing you did better than anyone else in the arena; it wasn’t something you had to think about, it came as naturally as breathing or blinking. Back in District Four, you had spent as much time in water as you had on land. As cold and bruised as you were when the hovercraft fished you out of the water, you were the only tribute who had managed to survive.

A girl only a couple of years older than your sister had been among the tributes still alive when you flooded the arena. In the recaps they played for you during your first interview, you had to see her lips turn blue as she flailed uselessly against her dragging clothes and tried to keep afloat long enough to draw another breath.

Shivering, you look around for your shirt on the floor. There’s a bottle of pink sparkling wine in the middle of a sticky puddle, and you remember knocking it over to a lot of laughter last night. Well, they’d given you a fair bit to drink, which you have to admit was unusually nice. It sure made everything easier.

You’ve only just located your shirt and are reaching for it when a hand snakes up your back, tugging playfully at your hair. You sigh, leaning back obediently. Who were you kidding, anyway? There’s no point in trying to get dressed just yet. She wraps her arms around you from behind, and you’re uncomfortably aware of the weight of her breasts against your shoulders. Her lips move against your ear, and you smell the stale alcohol on her breath.

“He’s still asleep,” she murmurs, indicating her snoring husband with a slight tilt of her head, which you feel rather than see. “But why don’t you and I have some fun? It’s going to be a busy day for me, after all. Might as well stay in bed for a little longer.”

“Just as you say, madame,” you agree, allowing her to pull you onto your back and grabbing her trim waist to steady her as she climbs on top of you.

“Aranea, please,” she murmurs, leaning in far enough that her short black hair tickles your face, her almond shaped eyes glittering with amusement. It’s probably just because she doesn’t see that well without her glasses, but her sudden proximity seems almost like a subtle threat. “You’re making me feel old.”

Well, she is actually a fair bit older than you, but you don’t say that aloud. You know you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, and you’ve gotten good at playing even dumber than you are, but you’re not _that_ stupid. “Well, we simply can’t have that,” you say with a feeble grin. “Whatever you want, Aranea.”

“Better,” she murmurs, running her perfectly manicured, bright blue nails across your chest.

“So, uh- I say, the Games wrapped up last night, didn’t they?”

“That’s right,” she says with a nod, still focused on running her hands across your skin, but you’ll see if you can’t get her talking despite this. She does rather like the sound of her own voice.

“Blast it, what a shame that I missed it,” you lie, as if you haven’t gone out of your way to avoid seeing as much as possible of every Games since you won. Which is difficult, since you’ve mentored in every single one, and so you can only start avoiding it once... no, better not to think about it.

“You did? You poor thing, why was that?” she murmurs, sliding down your body slightly so that she can lick a trail down your chest. You’ve gotten really good at not squirming or grimacing when they do things like that, you think distractedly.

“Ah, I- I think I was just far too preoccupied, what with thinking about our upcoming tryst,” you say, and happily she probably mistakes the wobble in your voice for something other than it is. Barefaced lies are still not quite your forte.

“Flatterer,” she purrs, but she looks pleased despite the accusation.

“So, who won?” you demand, obediently lifting your hips so that she can disentangle the sheets from around them.

“Strider, of course, who else?” She quirks one eyebrow and sits back, smiling benevolently down at you, eager to impart her wisdom to the ignorant district boy. “There really was no competition at all. Just with the data I’d collected and analyzed before the Games even started, I could’ve told you that right away.”

So could anyone with a single working brain cell, you think, but because you have at least one of those you once again keep your thoughts to yourself. Aranea has written several incredibly lengthy books on the Hunger Games, analyzing their cultural importance and political impact, going into excruciating detail on certain games, digging deep into the backgrounds and supposed motivations of individual victors. She’s frequently invited to the numerous television shows that serve to keep the audience in the Capitol from getting bored in between the Games and the Victory Tour. A man who runs one such show is counted among your patrons, and he’s confided in you that they always schedule her right before the end of the program, or she’ll inevitably talk for far too long and cut other guests on the show short.

“Anyway, you didn’t miss much. There was a rather good fight between him and the boy from Ten – you know, the one who managed to construct something like a cattle prod to fight with? But after that, I’m afraid what’s-her-face from Seven completely let us down. El- Elena, maybe? I forget. Anyway, she ought to have come up with _some _way to get someone to send medicine for her arm, but she was far too complacent. So she fell into a crevasse and had to be mercy killed. I don’t know about you, but I think they really ought to do something about it when the games risk ending like that! There ought to be some sort of measure in place to at the very least give the other contestant some sort of handicap, or perhaps help out the unsatisfactory contestant without anyone having to pay for it with their hard-earned money. After all, the importance of an appropriately satisfying climax far outweighs any superficial idea of fairness or sportsmanship, and while I can understand some of the arguments about not interfering with the bets some people have staked on their favorite tributes, one must nonetheless consider that the societal impact of the-”

She has folded her arms on your chest by now and keeps talking, occasionally freeing one hand to gesture emphatically, and you breathe out a little bit. As long as you keep humming your agreement and not interrupting, you’ve bought yourself some time. If you were to guess, you’d say you probably have until her husband wakes up. They’ll want to get their money’s worth of companionship, after all. But you’re pretty certain that having a captive audience for her meandering rant is every bit as satisfying to her, and she’s not likely to complain about it. You’re safe, because you never really put a toe out of line. You just listen, and try to remember as much as you can.

Funny, you think without any humor at all, but instead a kind of sick, empty feeling in your stomach. When you left the arena, you’d thought that the worst of it was behind you. But somehow, every single day, you could swear you’re still fighting not to drown.

* * *

You’d been given to understand that this was the norm whenever a victor was considered desirable in some way, but even so people would admit to you that it was unusual for one single victor to have achieved this level of keen interest so soon. Rumor had it that the wait list extended well beyond a year before you’d even turned sixteen.

A week before your sixteenth birthday, you’d had a subdued little celebration back in District Four, just you, your father, your mentor and your sister. Jade asked you why you wouldn’t be home during your actual birthday, and you’d explained that some of your friends in the Capitol were throwing a party for you. She’d sulked after that, clearly feeling betrayed that you’d rather be in the Capitol than at home with her for your birthday, and you’d apologized and said that you just hadn’t wanted to be rude by turning them down. Of _course_ you’d rather be home with her. She’d looked up, her paler green eyes serious and unusually stern, and then she’d sighed and reached out her arms for a hug. Even though she was just eleven at the time, she’d always been wise far beyond her years, certainly wise enough to understand that no district person would dare turn a Capitol invitation down, not even a victor.

“Don’t stay away too long, okay?” she said.

Your mentor met your gaze from across the room, her expression a strange mix of contrition, resignation and affection. Grandma Harley – as everyone knows her, despite how she’d chosen pointedly to never have children – of course knew the real reason why you had to go, and that how long you stayed wasn’t up to you at all. You’d never gotten up the nerve to ask her if she had gone through the same thing, though you’d seen the old recordings of her Games and how beautiful she had been as young woman. Like you and Jade and many others in your district, she’d had that distinctive dark skin and hair, strikingly complemented by fair eyes. So maybe you don’t ask because you don’t want to hear the answer, because the world already contains enough that weighs your heart down.

She never warned you what was to happen after the Games if you survived, but you’ve never blamed her for it. At the time, even with your unexpected popularity among the Capitol citizens, the very idea that you were going to come out of it alive seemed remote at best, even though you’d been equipped with fairly excellent survival skills. No fourteen-year-old had ever won before, and the youngest victor in more recent history had to say the least been... an outlier. You’d known at the time that you simply didn’t have the stomach for that kind of battle. You’d gone in expecting to die.

But there you were, a bit less than two years later, standing on the Capitol train station on your sixteenth birthday. Rufioh came and picked you up, having offered to dress you for the occasion, and you’d been so eager for a familiar face that you’d said yes. You figured it didn’t really matter what kind of skimpy outfit he put you in, since you weren’t going to wear it for all that long anyway.

He greeted you enthusiastically as always, kissing your cheeks and showering you in delighted compliments, as he led you to his car. His trademark black and red hair was in intricate braids that day, matched with some braided silver ornaments attached along his eyebrows. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ll handle any prepping needed on my own? I’m sorry doll, it’s just that the preps don’t know about all of, well, you know, _this_-” He waved his hand vaguely, and you supposed that you were grateful that he didn’t just come out and say that you were about to get sold. “And I mean, sure, I could totally pretend that we were prettying you up for, you know, a date or whatever, but honestly I figured you’d rather not have to deal with all that. You dig?”

Yes, you did dig, and you were glad he hadn’t decided to go that route. You don’t think you would’ve dealt very well with making up some story about your upcoming ‘date’, and the barrage of questions and cutesy teasing that would inevitably follow. You trusted Rufioh to do just fine with the prepping, and to be honest, you didn’t actually give a single pair of dingo’s kidneys about the results. You just wanted the whole thing to be over with.

After you’d had your hair plucked and your skin smoothed and whatever else all those oils and scrubs were supposed to do, he walked you into another room where your outfit waited. Surprisingly enough, it was fairly restrained, picked out in dark green and black and covering most of your body in soft, loose-fitting fabric. Sure, the fabric clung suggestively to your muscles, the wide neckline exposed your collar bones, and the sleeves were short. But compared to what you’d worn before and after your Games – which was to say, next to nothing – it was a strange change.

“I say,” you mumbled once you’d put the clothes on, “this is a little subdued compared to your usual stuff. Not that I’m complaining!” you added quickly, clutching a handful of your flowing tunic as if half afraid that the stylist would take it away from you.

“Mm, I know babe,” he murmured, fussing with your collar for a moment before he looked up. When you met his large brown eyes, you could read all the apologies he probably would never know how to articulate, his vague understanding that what was happening now was something he was complicit in, even if it was only as a supporting role. He’d only tried to get you through this alive, but the cost had turned out steeper than he’d thought. The butterfly wing ornaments attached to his false lashes trembled as he closed his eyes, drawing in a slightly shaky breath, looking like he was gathering his strength. Then he reached up and adjusted your hair, his smile looking a bit brittle. “But I don’t think you’re gonna need much help looking your best, you get me? Go knock ‘em dead, sweetie.”

He hugged you, but as he started to lead you toward the door he hesitated, grimacing slightly. “Hold on, doll.” He left the room for a few minutes, and came back with something clutched in his hand. He gestured for you to hold out yours, and tipped a number of brightly colored little pills into your palm. “Take one of these before you go,” he said with a slightly embarrassed grin. “Trust me, it’ll help. Just one, mind. Save the rest.”

Your first patron picked you up ten minutes later, and you followed him to his car in that strange detached state that you’ve gotten so used to. He was kind enough, patient as you got flustered and tongue tied, as you fumbled and hesitated. He told you not to worry, and later praised you for being a fast learner, and you figured out quickly enough that things would be easier if you kept being a quick study. Compliance had always come easier than rebellion to you, so you turned into a sort of skill to be agreeable without seeming meek. That only made you more popular, but by then you had no idea how else to be, and it would’ve been really darn obvious if you suddenly stopped anyway. The price of survival accumulated as time went by, that was all. The water got deeper, colder, and the waves got bigger. But the only alternative was to stop swimming.

* * *

A couple of days after the end of the Games, when they’ve put the victor back together, made him presentable for the cameras and presented him with his crown, it’s time for the sponsor’s banquet. It’s not exactly a given for other victors to be invited there, but there’s no rule against it either. It gives the guests something to entertain themselves with while they wait to get the recent victor’s attention and fawn over their shiny new distraction.

You have attended the event quite a few times, a consequence of being a much appreciated diversion to a large number of the rich and mighty in the Capitol. As Rufioh is wont to do, he’s provided you with a new outfit in honor of the evening, and while you appreciate his continued dedication, his enthusiasm for showing off as much of you as possible had returned quite a while ago. This leaves you standing around awkwardly and wishing you had something to cover up with at least a little bit. You’ve always enjoyed wearing shorts, but you’re not sure what you’re wearing even qualifies as such, and you pull unconsciously on your shirt in a futile effort to not have your entire midriff on display.

Someone passing behind you pinches your bottom rather hard and giggles, and you offer her a well crafted smile and a wink, swallowing down your brief moment of panic. You really, really hate crowds.

“Hey, English.” You jump and spin around in the direction of the laid-back drawl, smiling a bit sheepishly as Dave Strider raises his eyebrows at you. “Been overdoing the coffee a bit, have we? Jesus, you should see your eyes. They look like they belong to some kind of crazed rodent right now, a specimen suffering from the rare and dangerous jumping hunk disease – it makes you both insanely swole and insanely nervous. Side effects include incessantly clapping ass cheeks. Been working late?” He says that last part as casually as if he was referring to some kind of hobby project, even though both of you know better. From what you’ve heard, he’s been ‘working late’ pretty much nonstop as a way of getting his brother sponsors.

“I suppose so,” you say a bit lamely, because you’ve learned that his jargon isn’t actually a sign of aggression, nothing like that. It’s just the way he always talks. You rally a bit, manage a more passable smile, and stride over to shake his hand. He looks a bit stunned. “But nevermind all that malarkey, and much more importantly: Congratulations, old chap! You got your brother out of there safe and sound.” You slap his back for good measure, and then let your hand linger there a bit longer than necessary. It’s the only way you can express the strange mix of sympathy, admiration, pity and concern that you feel, at least with all these Capitol people present.

“Holy god, it’s like being flogged with a great big leg of ham. I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m opposed, but give a guy a warning. I think we’d both be equally embarrassed if I were to swoon.” He tilts his head forward and looks at you over the top of his shades, and you think you see something like gratitude flash across those bright red irises. “But yeah, it’s been a wild time ever since he came back. Haven’t really had time to talk to the dude about stuff, he’s way too busy getting a good bask in that limelight. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but he’s always been kind of an insufferable showoff.”

Oh no. That’s right, what with being whisked off for prep and then interviewed for three hours straight prior to this, there probably hasn’t been much opportunity for the brothers to talk to each other. And if for some reason Dave hasn’t warned Dirk about what comes next before he entered the Games… Crud. At least you had only been fourteen when you won, so while the banquet certainly was an opportunity for all interested parties to have a closer look at you, they’d had to sit pretty and wait until you turned sixteen before they could touch you. You’d had time to get used to the idea. Or at the very least, time to learn how to mask your fear and come to terms with the inevitable.

In Dirk’s case, since he’s seventeen already, you can only assume that the bidding is in full swing, and his first appointment will be soon. The people of the Capitol aren’t known for their subtlety, especially the sponsors here who already feel as if they are owed their share of the victor, and by all accounts Dirk is a much faster guy with an uptake than you ever were. He’ll figure it out soon enough, but damn you, you remember exactly how unpleasant it was to have the situation explained to you by giggling Capitol people, their eyes shining bright as jewels down at you, amused and pitiless. You remember being told how sweet and naive you were, and it makes your skin crawl to this day.

You see the signs now, the uncomfortable set of Dave’s shoulders, the almost invisible frown, the tension around his eyes. He hides his anxiety well, and a couple of years ago you wouldn’t have noticed at all, but learning to gauge people’s moods has been a survival strategy for you. It would be considered bad form for the mentor to drag away the victor in the middle of the banquet. His job is done now, after all, and he has to offer up the prize he’d promised the sponsors, the ones who had deigned to pour their assets into the victor’s survival. If one of them takes offense, that could end up having unpleasant consequences for Dirk later on.

You bite your lip, as if you’re truly hesitating, but in truth you’ve already made your decision. It might raise some eyebrows, might rub some people the wrong way, but you’re pretty sure you can get away with it. After all, your well-crafted reputation as an incurable flirt serves the elaborate fantasies the Capitol citizens have about you, not to mention the egos of your patrons. It’s much more fun to pretend that you’re simply insatiable, always willing and eager for more, than to acknowledge the fact that you’re just a pretty piece of meat. It’s not very flattering to remind themselves that the person in their bed is a slave, with no more ability to protest their advances than if you were as voiceless as an Avox. So they tell themselves these tales about you instead.

“If you would like, I could have a quick word with him,” you say, lowering your voice a bit as if you’re discussing something scandalous, rather than just sad and ugly. “You know, show him the old ropes, so to speak.”

Dave’s eyes widen a bit, and that’s really the only sign of his relief and appreciation, but you understand even so. He raises his eyebrows again, leans back against the wall and crosses his arms across his chest. “Listen, man, if there are going to be ropes involved in this then I don’t want to hear about it, alright? What’s even your game English, trying to make me jealous or something? That’s a pretty low blow, even for you.” He makes an obscene gesture with his fingers and mouth, and you have to hold in your snort of nervous laughter.

“Dadburnit, Strider, you’re always so frightfully crass.” You give him a plaintive look, even as you squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. “You have no romance in your soul. Even so, I think I’ll go and have a good, honest heart-to-heart with your brother. Shall I expect you to be our chaperon, or…?”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” he replies, waving lazily at you and turning away. “You go have your manbro talk with my brother, and Imma go avail myself to some fucking bubbly. Failing that, some bleach to purge those aforementioned ropes from my mind and restore some goddamn tranquility to it. See you later.”

You watch him go, hoping that if he noticed the pity in your eyes, he will understand where it comes from and not take offense. It is just that from one brother to another, it is all too easy to imagine what he’s feeling right now, and you hope that what you’re about to do will at least make it a bit easier on him. Honestly, you have no idea how you would ever tell Jade about- no. No, you simply couldn’t. Now that you think about it in those terms, you can see why Dave hasn’t managed to tell Dirk about it before this point.

You step around a group of men and women who are laughing loudly and shouting the lines of some sort of joke at each other out of sync, duck out of the way of a few patrons who would insist you stop and waste time with them if they saw you, kiss the cheeks and hands of a few acquaintances before passing on. A woman stops you and urges you to pose in a photo with her son who, according to her, admires you so. The fact that you’ve shared both their beds on separate occasions makes the whole thing incredibly awkward, but at least they let you go pretty soon thereafter. Breathe, breathe. Keep treading water, keep breaking the surface, find something to hold on to.

There! You make it through the tightly packed throng around him, offering charming smiles and friendly pats to anyone you happen to jostle, reminding yourself again and again that you can breathe. You’ll soon be out of the crowd. Really, it’s all fine and dandy. You’re doing just swell. When you reach him, insinuating yourself in front of the most recent adoring fan, you can already see some of the people around you elbowing each other and exchanging knowing smiles, and you know that you’d been right. You’ll get away with this. The thought of you and him sneaking away together is titillating enough to make up for you borrowing some of his precious time.

You lean in, smiling easily and taking his hand in yours. He tenses almost imperceptibly, then relaxes and allows it to happen, raising his eyebrows in a manner almost indistinguishable to that of his brother. Well, that’s hardly surprising – they are quite literally identical, after all, save for the eyes. “You don’t mind if I steal you away for a moment or two, do you, dear boy? It is just that I’ve been simply dying to meet you for the longest time, have heard so many great and inspiring things about what a standup fellow you are, and I would very much like to see if the man truly lives up to a myth in that department.” You realize a moment after you’ve said it that it sounded a lot more suggestive than you were in fact gunning for, but you don’t correct yourself, since that probably won’t harm the act. You just feel your cheeks heat slightly and kind of wish that you had a handkerchief – or failing that some actual proper pants.

Dirk Strider makes a dryly amused little sound, but his eyes are inscrutable behind those jet black shades of his, and you get the distinct feeling that he’s sizing you up, trying to find your angle. “I think you’ll find that my qualities in the ‘standup’ department, as you say, are so entirely beyond the mere average masses, you might have to beg for backup while attempting to deal with the sheer outrageous fucking magnitude of it all. Do you truly think you’re ready to find out about it? Consider your answer carefully, English, because I’m not known for my capacity for mercy – especially to those who meddle with what they cannot handle. Which of course inevitably is 100% of all those who try to meddle with me. So what do you say?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but I certainly would hate to back down from such a magnificent challenge.” Your laugh comes out far more nervous than you would’ve liked it, because in all honesty you’ve never been that good under pressure. Not to mention, backing down from challenges is the very reason why you’re still alive today, and it’s not like Dirk doesn’t know that. Blast it, you could_ really_ do with losing the audience, that would make this so much easier. So you lean in seductively, his hand still grasped in yours, and lower your voice a bit for good measure. If this is the one thing you’re actually good for, then you’ll damn well make sure that it’s also something that you’re good _at_. “But enough bandying this topic to death with no action, don’t you agree? Before we discuss this any further, I’d suggest we go somewhere a bit more private.” You lean in close enough to whisper in his ear, picking your words carefully. “Don’t worry, I’ve already asked for your brother’s blessing.”

In the periphery of your vision, you see his eyes snap suddenly in your direction, sharp and calculating. You’d seen Dave Strider before his eye surgery, of course, but witnessing their peculiarly sharp amber color up close is something else. You feel pinned like a butterfly to a piece of cork, like the old faded collection of them on the wall of your old classroom, and your heart suddenly beats like the distant memory of wings, shivers like something caught.

“Alright,” he says, tilting his head just a bit so that you feel his breath against your jaw. “You’ve got my attention.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello, obviously the update speed on this bad boy is going to settle down after a while. i attempt to keep consistently updating at least once a month w my other fic, and i'll probably try something similar w this one, but currently i'm just trying to ride out the hyperfocus like a boss.
> 
> also i might start alternating perspectives in later chapters, bc it might get a bit clunky to keep doing one character per chapter when the plot picks up, but we'll deal w that confusion when we get there ^^;;


	4. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something you lack that your brother has. But maybe there's a good reason for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, i'm writing while sick so let's see how coherent this is :P lots of icky warnings of the sexual exploitation and child abuse kind, as usual. also some gore.
> 
> OH, and i had to do a minor edit to the first section of chapter two! that's what you get when you write on the go, ahahah. i kind of had to add a couple of details for this chapter to really flow as i want it to, sorry about that.

Jake English leads you onto some kind of balcony that appears to be wrapping around the entire building, sectioned off into individual little nooks by tall trellises covered in rampant greenery, presumably to give anyone who desires it some privacy. As you pass by one of them, someone behind all the leaves and flowers lets out a strangled, shaky little gasp. English flinches as if someone has struck him, which seems to you to be a pretty odd reaction to what is probably just a couple of Capitol people making out. It’s not exactly something you’d like to listen to while eating, that’d probably put you off your appetite, but it’s hardly intimidating. Maybe it reminded him of something else? A victor is usually by definition a complicated array of traumas pretending to be a human, so you suppose it’s entirely possible.

You find yourself your own little alcove, and English sits down awkwardly in the wrought-iron love seat, and then winces when the cold metal touches his bare midriff. You remain standing, leaning against the wall, watching him cautiously. The absolutely ridiculous clothes combined with his suddenly significantly less suave attitude and what you know about him from his Games makes you feel fairly confident that he’s not a threat, but it doesn’t do to let down your guard. You watch him tilt his head back for a moment, pulling his hands slowly across his face and breathing in deeply, waiting for him to make the first move. He clearly has something he wants you to know.

“I’m sorry,” he says with an embarrassed grin once he appears to have gathered himself sufficiently. Your posture is impassive, but he’s probably picking up on your impatience even so. Dave has informed you that you can be a bit intense. “I just really don’t like crowds very much. There’s so much noise, so many faces, all that movement… I don’t want to seem like a wet nelly, but I’m afraid it rather stresses me out.”

It’s not as if you don’t understand what he means. For someone who was literally raised to survive the Games, with no specific plan beyond that point because Bro is one single-minded maniac, there is nothing particularly leisurely about this party. There are too many angles, too many targets. While in theory there _should_ be nothing to fear, because you’re outside the arena and among people who have never wielded anything heavier than a hair curler in their lives, that doesn’t help at all. There’s something that’s wrong. All that training throughout your entire life didn’t prepare you for this, but it gave you very keen instincts, which are now positively screaming that someone in this building is harboring predatory intentions toward you. Someone is_ hunting_ you. You just can’t pinpoint them.

For the first time this evening, you feel as if you can begin to breathe freely. By the look of him, English shares that sentiment.

“I can’t say I’m enjoying this, no,” you say, keeping your voice deliberately flat. “I guess it’s hard to shake that every living person around me a couple of days ago was a threat that I needed to eliminate. But I don’t think my new entourage would appreciate it very much if I were to pick up my salad fork and start weeding them out a bit.”

English laughs, pulling a hand through his unreasonably perfect hair. You’d assume it was a Capitol-made wig if it hadn’t looked exactly the same in his Games. Bastard. “Well, of course they wouldn’t. Whoever heard of using a salad fork for that? Thoroughly uncivilized.”

To your surprise, you actual feel a small smile tug at your lips, and your first instinct is to cover it with a cough. But that would be even more obvious and embarrassing. So fine, he wins this one. His entire face, suddenly so open now that you’re alone, lights up at the sight of your probably pretty tense and strange little smile, as if he’s a puppy receiving praise. That’s weird. He’s apparently a bit more complicated than he at first appeared, and surprisingly actually has a sense of humor. You really hadn’t expected that. “Yeah, right. So should I use a steak knife for that, or a fish fork, or maybe whatever utensil is considered appropriate for chicken? What group of animals would you say that this particular host of idiots belong to, taxonomically speaking? I feel like proper scientific analysis is required here if we want to observe the right etiquette while straight up murdering some rich, overfed bastards.”

His eyes flit around nervously for a moment, and you half expect him to hush you, but once he has assured himself that you’re alone he actually taps his chin as if playing along.

“Well, since I don’t know what kind of cutlery is appropriate for vultures, I think we’d have to settle for a dung fork.”

A bit crude, but you’re nonetheless impressed. You genuinely didn’t think this guy had enough brains to keep up with you even for a moment, and definitely not the backbone. You remember watching his Games, and while English had been a genuinely skilled fighter, his only face-to-face kills had been mutts. You remember your Bro’s impatience, perhaps even disgust as he wiped out all of his competition while never so much as raising a finger to them, let alone looking into their dying eyes. You’d always wondered if that was some sort of twisted concern for you and Dave, the only kind he knew how to show, because someone like English being so heavily favored by the Capitol might be one of the few things that could tip the scales against you in the arena. Someone who was given more leniency than any tribute had the right to expect, even when he outright avoided fighting, because enough really rich idiots wanted to get their hands on him.

He’d certainly lived up to their expectations though, you had to give him that. You watch English sitting there, barely dressed and effortlessly gorgeous, and you wonder if you could actually bring yourself to hate him. No, you don’t think so, but neither do you trust him. The fact that you agree that he’s almost unnaturally attractive only makes him more dangerous. What does he want with you? Why has he taken you here, where there’s just the two of you and the cameras will probably stay away for at least a little while, in case they end up filming something thoroughly indecent – or perhaps just waiting until they’re sure to capture something properly juicy? You can never tell with the Capitol, after all.

“So are we going to keep making dinner plans, or are you going to actually tell me what you want any time soon?” you demand, and he winces slightly yet again. He has a really expressive face, showing every weakness in a way that is completely unacceptable for any tribute, let alone a victor. You remember one commentator bursting into tears when he got sick in the arena and kept muttering his little sister’s name, weeping, as he forced himself to walk. Never, not even once had you said Dave’s name in the arena. You wouldn’t do that to him.

Now you think you hate him at least a little.

“Of course. It’s a busy evening for you, after all,” he says with a queasy little smile.

“The people out there?” You raise one eyebrow with studied nonchalance, and for some reason that makes his smile grow a little bit wider. Why? “I honestly couldn’t care what happened to them, though if someone asked for my preference, I’d suggest slow blood poisoning or dehydration. Or those fucking muttation rats in my brother’s game, the ones that ate one tribute from the feet up.” Again the flickering eyes, the fading smile, and this time it’s really blatant. Holy shit, there are even tears in his eyes. You stare at him in confusion, and then realize far too late that the screaming, feebly thrashing boy had been from English’s district. Oh no. You know you’re an asshole, but you’re not a monster. English was that kid’s _mentor_, for fuck’s sake!

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words sounding completely fake and unfamiliar, tasting strange on your tongue. You have never said them to anyone who wasn’t Dave. The one time you tried to say them to Bro, he punched you in the gut and told you that once you could breathe again, you weren’t to waste that precious breath on apologies. Those never got anyone anywhere. But it’s out of you before you can reconsider it, before you instinctively tense as if anticipating retribution, and you still feel the need to elaborate somehow. “I forgot-”

But English holds up a hand, cutting your apology short in a much gentler way. “I know. We- We have to talk about it like that sometimes, like it’s no big deal, or we would… We have to. I know.”

Honestly a lot of the things you did in the arena don’t feel like such a big deal. At that point you had gathered momentum, going through the motions and doing exactly what you’d always been training to do. It doesn’t even feel real now that you think back to it. Your interview a couple of hours ago would probably have been the most boring in recorded history if you didn’t know how to make up for your lack of reaction with your wit and dry sense of humor. You know for a fact that your face barely moved through the entire thing, no matter what they showed in an effort to provoke a reaction. You just watched, remembering the deaths you’d been present for, taking note of the ones you had not. The only time you had to actively stifle an expression was when you thought about the Capitol show runners losing their minds in frustration, and nearly laughed.

The ubiquitous host, Horuss Zahhak, didn’t seem fussed by your stony countenance at all. The memory that stands out most, somehow, is how he’d grinned widely and enthusiastically at you as they showed you decapitating the boy from District One on the screens, stabbing a hole right through the skull because you wanted the spear as balanced as possible. The close-ups on the careers’ reactions when the head of their former comrade landed right among them. The way the girl from his district had stood stock still, the only one to not panic once she understood what it was, her eyes fixed on the head. Her expression reminding you of the dead boy’s before your messy work on his head all but obliterated it.

“I imagine that’s when they knew for sure that they were in serious trouble,” Horuss said, his lips – blood red this year – parted so widely it looked like a grimace.

“Yeah, I think I made it pretty clear that their shit was wrecked,” you’d replied.

The screen showed another girl in the group, instinctively trying to wipe the blood and brains off her clothes and her panicked shudders as the mess transferred to her hands instead and she had nothing to remove it with. Her eyes were wide and blueish green. District Four.

You blink and find English looking at you with concern, his lips stilling as if he just asked you a question. You shake your head. What’s wrong with you? “I’m fine,” you say before he has a chance of repeating himself. “Don’t worry about me.”

* * *

Before that, though, on the first evening of the games, you had watched the faces of the tributes that died in the bloodbath, lighting up the sky like impossibly detailed constellations. Of course, the very first one was Bianca Malika, her expression calm and regal, not slack-jawed and empty like the body you’d laid to rest on a bed of gravel down by the Cornucopia. A career tribute dead so soon into the game was unusual, and you could only assume that the betting and speculation was already running rampant. Idly you wondered if maybe she’d made previous arrangements to join up with the rest of the career tributes in hunting you down. Some strange and intangible reason made you doubt that, and you still do; you suppose she just didn’t seem like the sort, somehow. And while she’d carried herself graciously around the other tributes, much less dismissive than most, you’d never seen her conferring for long with anyone from the other career districts.

Of course, that might’ve just been what she wanted you to think. She could’ve talked to their mentors at some point to work things out, relatively out of sight, and you would never have known. There were a lot of things a person would rather do than die, no matter how unthinkable otherwise.

You watched her face lingering in the sky, trying to dissect your feelings, but for some reason it was hard work. Before the arena, your only kills had been animals, naturally. The Capitol was lenient with the career districts blatantly breaking the rules by training their tributes beforehand, because that made the Games more interesting and the districts hate each other more, but even they would find it hard to turn a blind eye if people started practicing their combat skills by actually killing people. Dead slaves can’t work, after all.

So she was your first human kill. She had fought hard, and you wouldn’t say it had been easy, but that was only because she had refused to let it be. Actually killing her, though… You hadn’t hesitated, because if you hesitated you were dead, especially if the opponent was as skilled as she. And also if you hesitated, a simple technique that would end a life quickly and painlessly would instead turn into a painful struggle if the victim got a chance to fight the hold. In a worst case scenario, they might even end up choking to death.

So you were quick and merciful, like Dave with that fucking bird. She went with even less fuss, just a few feeble twitches as she slid to the ground and then lay still. Since it was the blood bath, you didn’t get the confirmation of the cannon firing, but you didn’t need it to know that she was dead. There had been something in this girl’s eyes, something bright and strong and powerful, and now all of that was gone.

You’d turned your back on her quickly, because you had things to do.

You watched her face fade away in the sky, the last time you’d see her in these Games, and still had no idea what you were feeling. Probably for the best not to feel anything at all. A moment after, she was followed by the boy from three. Also yours, you got him in the leg and then sliced him wide open on your way away from the Cornucopia. The girl from Three wasn’t yours, but the girl from from Five and the boy from Seven were. All in all there were twelve dead tributes, four of them brought down by your hand. You couldn’t imagine that anyone was getting good odds betting on you at this point in the Games, but you’d not reached the point when they closed down bets on you and started only accepting bets on _how_ you’d win. Not like Bro, who reached that point in his first day.

Somehow, that was something you couldn’t bring yourself to feel ashamed of. Actually, you felt relief.

You sat in the dark, watching the seal fade away and the stars returning, wondering if they were actually real stars or some kind of Gamemaker projection. You trusted absolutely nothing in the arena. You tried to imagine what Dave had felt on his first evening. He’d had more kills on his first day, since he’d singlehandedly taken down the career pack, but with a broken weapon and in obvious agony, his odds had nonetheless not changed all that much. He’d lain face down on the ground even though that couldn’t be comfortable on his ribs, obviously trying not to show his face to the cameras. You’re not sure if he’d slept or not, it was impossible to tell. He’d just stayed there, unmovable, until the night chill drove him to stir. He didn’t even look up as the fallen tributes flashed by overhead, probably counting them out via the irregularly flickering light as it reflected on the ground.

His kill count flattened out completely for a long while after that, and it was obvious that he was trying to avoid other tributes altogether, attempting to outlast them. That was a viable strategy for most tributes, but not one which the Capitol appreciated from a career tribute with Dave’s skills. You’re pretty sure that the acid trap that blinded him at the end was a form of punishment, set specifically for Dave because he’d let his adoring audience down. Bro wasn’t necessarily bad at winning the rich and powerful back over, and maybe that’s why he wasn’t killed outright, but Dave was no Jake English. His strategy had an obvious flaw and he knew it.

Apparently he’d thought it was worth it. To not kill unless he absolutely had to.

You know Dave is still haunted by the things he nontheless had to do, that what he’d felt during that first night followed him throughout the rest of the Games and out of them. Dave had experienced the full force of how fucked up it was, it had gotten to him instantly, and he’d acted accordingly. Something in him had broken irreparably when he was forced to kill. You’d heard it scraping in his voice as he begged you not to volunteer, not to go into the arena the way he had. You’d known exactly what he was trying to protect you against.

Somehow, _that’s_ the thought that makes your hands clench and fill with sweat, forces you to desperately control your breathing and pull your impromptu blanket closer so you can pretend that your shivering is just because of the cold. It hadn’t been necessary for Dave to sit around trying to figure out what he was feeling, if the blood on his hands meant anything at all. He’d just known. He didn’t have to analyze the situation and himself to find that wrongness, because it had instantly settled in a part of him that you’re starting to suspect that you do not have.

Sleeping that night was harder than it had ever been before, and it had nothing to do with the other tributes, or the arena, or even the Capitol. Try as they might, neither of_ those _things had ever frightened you.

* * *

Jake English pats the seat next to himself, giving you a pleading look. With a brief sigh to signal that you’re just humoring him, you sit down, careful not to touch any of his bared skin – which is apparently harder than it looks in a loveseat. You suppose the people who come here usually have no reason _not_ to be practically in each others’ laps.

“Your brother wanted me to tell you something,” he starts hesitantly, and you catch that hesitation and pin it down.

“Does he now,” you say flatly, clearly indicating it’s not really a question. “He told you to tell me something, did he?”

English squirms. “Well, as an actual matter of fact, not exactly. You see, there’s all these people around, and I imagine that’s why he cannot possibly pull you aside to talk to you about… this thing! But I could tell he wanted you to know before – that is, you’re going to find out anyway, but I think he’d want someone to tell you who isn’t, you know… drat it...”

“Capitol,” you finish. Honestly, if English is making shit up right now, he’s a far better bare-faced liar than you’ve given him credit for. No, you’re pretty sure he genuinely believes what he’s saying, and if you add that to the fact that you have noticed that something is on Dave’s mind, well, the whole thing is pretty convincing. Anyway, why not listen to him, regardless of if it’s false or true? Anything people say, even lies, can be ammunition. You realize that this is the arena talking, but you don’t imagine that the Capitol is much different. “Alright, shoot.”

He looks down, his hands stilling from their previous nervous fidgeting with his shirt. His breathing is slower. If this _was_ the arena, you’d expect an attack, or at the very least for something else to be attacking the both of you. You recognize what Jake English looks like right before he fights, right before he struggles with every ounce to survive. You remember watching him take down a pack of something that looked like a cross between wolverines and scorpions, running from flesh-eating lemmings, dragging his feet forward with the fever burning his flesh, fighting to stay afloat in that icy cold torrent of water. It’s the same look.

And then he smiles. You hadn’t expected that. He smiles, but his eyes look exactly the same. Something behind those deep green irises is struggling, desperate, sending out one simple message. _Help me._

“What your brother didn’t tell you – couldn’t possibly tell you, and that’s the honest truth – is that even when we leave the dastardly clutches of the arena… well, as victors, we’re still expected to do certain things, perform certain duties...”

“You’re not talking about mentoring,” you say evenly, and again it’s not a question. He meets your gaze, and again you see it. _Help me._ But there are no silver parachutes outside the Arena. There’s no aid to be had.

“No, I’m not,” he says quietly.

You sit unmoving, unreadable as he explains what he means, as it starts to make sense to you that this place made you feel hunted. The reason you couldn’t identify a specific source becomes obvious. And English, in his outfit that already reveals so much, seems to somehow undress even further without removing a single piece of clothing. You think about his Opening Ceremony, when he’d only worn body paint and a strategically placed sea shell, drawing raucous laughter from the crowds and a wink from Horuss Zahhak as he pronounced it, ‘Cheeky – quite literally’, and the whole studio had absolutely lost it. You think about their high-pitched screams of mirth as the cameras zoomed in, and the crowds shouting their appreciation, tossing the tribute flowers and tokens and even an item of intimate clothing. Now that you think about it, English had worn the same look in his eyes even then, far before you’d known what it actually meant. Jake English, District Four. Fourteen years old.

At the time, you’d been twelve, and already considered yourself grown. It hadn’t seemed so strange to you then.

“Of course, when I left the games I was still considered far too young, so- so they had to wait. Until I was sixteen.” He gives you a pained look. “But unfortunately-”

“I don’t have time on my side.” And then it finally hits you. You cannot understand how it took so long, because it should have been the very first thought in your head, your first consideration before this complete stranger, and even before yourself. But somehow, it was as if the truth was just too incomprehensible, too monstrous, too inevitable. Why _would _Dave take all those trips to the Capitol? All those gallery openings when he showed his talent, all those parties, all those interviews and premieres and tours and signings and… “Neither did my brother.” Something is wrong with your voice. It doesn’t sound like yours at all. It doesn’t sound like anything. The words are barely shapes in the air. But English sees them, understands.

“No,” he replies, and you vaguely register his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it. “I’m afraid not.”

“What happens,” you begin, forcing your vocal cords to work even though every word seems to fight to stay in your throat, “if you don’t?”

“They kill someone you love,” Jake replies, and in your mind you watch him shape his little sister’s name with cracked, dry lips. “Almost everyone has someone. Someone the Capitol can take away. Someone they can’t live without. Someone they can’t let down.”

Is that why Bro never goes there unless it’s required? You’d just thought it was because he scared even Capitol people, but is it actually because there’s no one he gives enough of a shit about? Did they take a look at how he was treating you and Dave and realized there’s nothing they can do to him? You feel your head get lighter, there’s a burn in your throat, a sensation in your stomach as if you’ve eaten bad meat. But Dave goes. Dave-

“And all those gifts in the arena?” you demand. “That wasn’t actually- it wasn’t a normal amount, even for career tributes. It was too easy to get them. At least-” Are you even breathing? “- for someone who isn’t like you.” You look down at your hands, completely free of scars for the first time you can remember. The full body polish had removed your entire life from your skin, every blade, every burn, every arrow, every painful tumble down the rocky mountainside. Just like it had for Dave. Even now, you’re far from as big or as healthy-looking as other career tributes, because Bro thought survival skills were more important than weight or reach. And he certainly thought ruthlessness was more important than social skills. You imagine yourself through the eyes of the Capitol people, trying to see what they see. Someone deadly and intelligent, yes, but also a scarred, scrawny, unsmiling creature. Savagery and resolve can get you a long way, but it doesn't make people love you. It doesn't make them invested in your survival.

You must've looked just like Bro in there. How many of them remember that? Surely almost all those with serious wealth to throw around are old enough to. That would make you not just a safe bet, but potentially a less interesting one. Not much return for their money at all, really. No thrill.

“I’m not charming. I’m not vulnerable. I’m not fucking fourteen. I don’t look like...” You gesture silently at English, who looks down ruefully at his own physical splendour. “So why the fuck did they try so hard to get me out?” Not near English’s level, of course, but now that you look back you still ought to have been closer to death more often.

English’s shoulders drop. “Because you have something else that’s unique,” he whispers. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, but- Please don’t believe I think- It’s disgraceful-”

“Say it,” you command, even though you’re sure you already know.

“Well, you’re…” He swallows. “...you’re one of a matched set.”

That’s right. That's it. You have Dave.

_Dave_. Dave, doing what he has to, because you cannot protect him. Dave’s hands around the bird’s neck, his tears, his guilt. Dave on the cold ground, the blood of the other tributes painting his broken sword sunset red. Dave coming home from the Capitol, never sharing your narrow bed until he’d had a thorough rinse at the pump out back, even though there was hardly a shortage of much warmer water where he came from. To wash the glitter and roses out of his asscrack, he’d joked. Dave, who never takes his shades off nowadays, not even when you’re alone. Maybe because then you’d see that look in his eyes too. Dave, begging you not to volunteer, while you reassured him that you were going to win. As if that would help.

It all flashes through your mind, but somehow it keeps returning to that bird. Dave in your arms, crying for all the times he wouldn’t later, no matter what they did to him. Your bitter words poured out at Bro’s retreating back, the conviction, the fear. _One day I’ll kill him._

No, not him. Not just him.

You’ll kill them all.


	5. Backstage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You learned early that keeping secrets was a kind of power, was a weapon, and also the only self-defense available to you at the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woop woop, getting more and more of the cast involved here. still doing one perspective per chapter so far, but once the introductions are done that's bound to change.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and while the rest of the Capitol basks in the conclusion of the 73 rd  Hunger Games, you’re hard at work preparing the 74  th . In Panem, no Gamemaker’s job is ever done, and as someone who only got appointed relatively recently, it’s important to show yourself as inventive and hardworking to the rest of your team. Especially if you happen to harbor some lofty and somewhat dangerous ambitions.

Of course, the arena for the next Games has been under construction for years, as is always the case, but there’s a bit more urgency involved in finishing it than usual. The reason is that at the end of the 72 nd  games, one of the Gamemakers had an idea so brilliant, you’d voted almost unanimously to make some rather radical changes to this particular arena. The most pressing challenge had been to make the Games still be survivable for at least a week or two, while at the same time getting the most out of this excellent new twist. There’s always an atmosphere of competition surrounding coming up with unique touches to individual Games, new ways of delighting the Capitol audience and frightening the district subjects, even if everyone of course pretends otherwise. You find it charming.

Tonight you’ve run through a large number of potential camera angles with the visual team, working out which ones will show off the impact of a number of traps most effectively, following the most likely escape routes for tributes if they should happen to survive. It might seem like pedantic busywork, and you have to admit it kind of is, but the audience is bound to be disappointed if they don’t manage to catch every exciting new development to their satisfaction. So while you’re tired at the end of the session, not to mention how you now have approximately twice as many new problems to solve, you nonetheless lean back with the sense of a job well done, your hands slowly tracing a path through your hair. Then you lace your fingers together above you and tilt your arms back until your back cracks, yawning hugely, only to catch Jane’s smile before she bends over the complicated 3D map of the network of cameras. Your lips twitch slightly as well. Everyone is a bit tired, after all. If you were to guess, you’d say it’s past two in the morning.

“And how would you say that the new cameras are holding up so far?” you demand, and a small wrinkle immediately appears on Jane’s otherwise immaculately smooth brow, tilting her midnight blue eyebrows. Her lips form a moue, her glossy red lipstick reflecting the stark white light around you, giving the impression that they’ve been waxed.

“I’m afraid I’m not certain,” she says, and as you raise your eyebrows at her, she sighs. “Oh very well, if you’re going to be like that about it, I’d have to say they’re not perfect. Not by far. But they’re still a lot better than what we were working with a year ago!”

“That’s all we’re asking, Jane,” you say, trying to be reassuring, something you will be the first to admit that you’ve never been all that good at.

“That’s all _you_ are asking, perhaps,” she says darkly, moving a few holographic dots around on the grid in front of her, watching for blind spots. “But President Scratch probably won’t be so forgiving.”

“You’re the best audiovisual producer we’ve ever had.” At least your tendency not to gush or soften your words means that she actually believes the compliment to be genuine, and a pretty blush rises on her cheeks at the same time as a half mumbled protest reaches her lips. “Please do not be modest, you know I detest it,” you add with a sly wink. “Everyone knows that no one could do it better.”

She sighs again, returning your smile a tad tiredly. “Well, I’m glad you thinks so, because I’m afraid it’ll still be my caboose on the line if the audience complains.”

She’s right about that, of course. It’s a dangerous business you’re in. The consequences for mistakes tend to be a bit more final than a sharp memo or a pay cut. And with Jane’s history, you’re very aware that there are already people watching her a bit more closely.

“Well, no one wants that,” a voice behind you chimes in. “Imagine the loss to society, to culture, to- to humanity itself! We need to make it a priority to preserve Janey’s prime posterior to posterity, sis.”

You roll your eyes at your sibling, strolling through the door with an enormous bottle of sparkling wine in their hand and gesticulating wildly with it, stumbling a little bit on that last tongue twister of a sentence. They’re quite obviously a fair bit buzzed already, but then again, you suppose you can’t blame them. If it was your job to not just patch up the victor, but also make the corpses of the other tributes presentable before they are sent back to their districts, you imagine you’d try really hard to not be sober whenever possible. It’s an affliction that runs in your family, and your own past isn’t spotless, to say the least. It’s just that you cannot afford to indulge as often as you’d like. Not with everything that’s at stake.

Roxy could probably delegate the task of dealing with the bodies. But they insist on doing it themselves, and when you happen to be a genius, people will usually have patience with your funny little ways. You should know.

Jane however looks concerned, and pulls her friend into a seat next to her. “You’ll end up clocking someone with that bottle if you’re not careful. Are you sure you should have more?”

“Janey, Jaaaney… I’m not just sure, I’m positively certain. But I brought this here for you, sillies. You’ve been working so hard, you deserve a treat.”

Jane looks like she’s about to protest, but honestly, she could use something to help her relax a little bit, and alright, fine, you would also like a drink right about now. You gesture vaguely over your shoulder. “My sibling wishes to spoil us. Bring some glasses for us, why don’t you?”

He looks up from where he’s been nodding off in his chair, glaring sourly at your blithe smile. “Oh, I see, so that’s what you need me here for at three in the fucking morning. Sure, I’ll go get some glasses so you can toast with your posse, why not? Nevermind that I’ve been here _forever _and I’m basically falling asleep.”

“Stop complaining and bring yourself a glass while you’re at it,” you reply sweetly. He appears slightly mollified, but keeps muttering something about being sure that this shouldn’t be his job even as he gets up and slouches off. Jane gives his retreating back an unsympathetic look.

“Why haven’t you fired him again, Rose?” she demands.

You shrug. Eridan is indeed the world’s worst personal assistant, but he is just too much fun to torment for you to ever consider getting rid of him. Besides, he has a couple of unusual talents, which you have a feeling might come in handy some time in the future. “Maybe I just believe in giving everyone a chance?” you say, which of course is such blatant nonsense that Jane doesn’t even bother to point it out, instead she just adjusts her tastefully jeweled glasses and sighs. Roxy laughs loudly, expertly uncorking their bottle and managing not to spill a single drop despite how they’d waved it around only moments ago.

“So,” you say, keeping your tone light, careful not to ask too directly, “you’ve wrapped up all your work for now?”

Their bright pink eyes meet yours for a moment, a more honest exchange than what you can achieve with words in this place, and then they look away with a small shrug. “Most of it has been done for a couple of days. I just had to supervise the victor until he woke up, see that the full body polish really took, that sort of thing.”

You recall the victor’s brother in the 72 nd  Games, having to take off his shirt to rip off a strip and turn it into a tourniquet. The maze of scars on his back, his arms, his chest. You’d seen signs of that in his brother as well, although he’d stayed mostly covered once he was in the Games. “The scarring was that bad, then? Usually the polish is a fairly routine procedure, isn’t it?”

“Usually there’s some skin that _isn’t_ scarred, Rose.” Roxy looks somber for a moment. “Apart from their faces, I hardly knew where to start with both of those boys. That monster who trained them really did a number on them. Or like… every number. All of the numbers, Rose. And science has a metric fuckton of numbers.” They shudder slightly. “It was _bad_.”

It’s not like your sibling to use words like ‘monster’, so that takes you by surprise. They tend to reserve their judgment for when it’s truly needed, and to be more generous to people’s circumstances than most tend to be. Their deeply compassionate nature would in many ways be considered a character flaw in the Capitol, if they hadn’t learned to be very careful about how they express it, and personally you have always seen it as a form of unwavering strength. So whatever Roxy had seen as they had patched up those two Strider boys, it must have been something utterly unforgivable.

Well, you think, that is certainly one way of training someone to survive the Games. If one makes sure someone’s life is incomprehensibly miserable before they even start, perhaps the real thing doesn’t come as quite as much of a shock. Although you’d bet there are some things which even that amount of abuse probably doesn’t prepare you for. The Capitol is rather counting on that, isn’t it? That everyone knows that it’s still possible to have it worse than they do. It’s how it maintains its power.

It makes you wonder, though, what kind of person it would take to genuinely believe that such violence is the best, perhaps even the only way of countering its manipulations. It makes you wonder about those boys’ guardian, and what had shaped him even before his infamous Games.

“Other than that, as far as injuries go, he just had that really nasty electric burn on his elbow, that one went to the bone.” Roxy sounds far less perturbed now, since that’s more par for the course in their line of work. They have learned how to deal with indiscriminate butchery within the games, where inhumanity is the one recourse of survival. Outside of the Games that shouldn’t be necessary... although you have to admit that put like that, it sounds exactly like something taken out of Treaty of Treason. “Oh, and he had a pretty gnarly sunburn and altitude sickness.”

“I’m not surprised,” you say, standing up. Your thoughts are becoming unproductive, and you don’t want your discomfort to show on your face. “We kept lowering the oxygen levels as time passed. At the end, staying at the very highest altitudes for more than a couple of hours would’ve been a death sentence. Ah, and there’s Eridan with our glasses.” You take two from him, playing up how amused you are by his displays of temper and his persistent lack of grace as he holds out the two he’s left holding so that Roxy can fill them. It’s important to just keep things light, so that the spirit of this toast could never be questioned by any of the secret eyes no doubt watching you.

The glasses Eridan had fetched for you are just sensible plastic cups, since nothing fancier is being kept in this part of the building, but in a strange way you rather appreciate the irreverence of enjoying the no doubt expensive wine in this manner. It looks like soda this way, the perfectly uniform streams of bubbles colored red and blurred by the clouded surface. You pass the drinks around, momentarily forgetting about your work as you stand facing each other, a strange tension suddenly seeming to stretch the air thin between you. Despite your efforts toward levity, you all know that this moment is between people who share a dangerous secret.

“To the end of this year’s Games,” Roxy says and raises their glass. Most people would probably have dedicated the toast to the victor, but your sibling knows better than that. It’s hard for them not to be aware of how silly it is to celebrate the survivors in such a manner.

“To many years of work to come,” Jane says and raises hers, and you quietly admire the vagueness of the statement. It could mean just about anything. Especially when Roxy adds something teasing about many more year’s of Jane’s ass, and she rolls her eyes and smiles.

“To the future of the Games,” you say, holding up your own plastic cup. “May it be… interesting.”

For a moment the three of you exchange looks, share the same thoughts, know exactly what the other two didn’t say and why. This isn’t a safe place, because no such thing exists in the Capitol, and that is especially true about the very heart of the Game Center. But that doesn’t matter. You don’t need to be safe; you’d even argue that you don’t deserve to be. What you need is to be clever, and to work fast, and to accept that there is nothing that you may not have to sacrifice one day. That’s the only way you can win.

Then Eridan raises his glass as well in a mocking salute. “To going home before the fucking sun comes up,” he says pointedly, and the tension finally dissipates into laughter. You suppose he might actually have a point, at that. You may as well catch some sleep when you can. You’re planning on having a very exciting future.

* * *

When you were eleven years old, you’d only ever seen the more ‘child friendly’ recaps of the Hunger Games on TV. You cannot help but find it such a fascinating distinction still. They made no secret of the fact that other children were dying in the Games, but were in fact very clear about that they were fighting to their death and that only one victor could remain. All they did was cut out the really gory bits and anything they thought might scare a younger child. Often there were little cartoons to illustrate how a tribute had died, which were either silly or sad, depending on the method of death. The host of the show would tell all Capitol children to say ‘bye bye’ to the dead tribute. Then there would be a song, usually on the theme of teaching some moral lesson through the tribute’s death.

You’ve got a pretty jaundiced view of humanity in a lot of ways, but you’re pretty sure that no matter how hard you might try, you’ll never achieve the level of cynicism required to put together the Hunger Games for Good Capitol Children program. Gamemakers have it easy in comparison.

One evening when you were eleven, your parents were off at a party and had left you with a babysitter, who had promptly fallen asleep on the couch in the fancy drawing room after putting you and Roxy to bed. You made sure he was really soundly asleep by tiptoeing in there and blowing on his eyelids, poking his cheeks and yanking at his hair a couple of times. Well, that was hardly surprising. You’d put some of your mom’s sleepy drops in the glass of liquor he’d helped himself to from the bar. You were kind enough to take the empty glass and rinse it out, putting it back with the others. Your parents would never know about the missing spirits, they had far too much to keep track of, and you rather liked the babysitter and didn’t feel like he should get in trouble for doing something your parents did _all the time_. It didn’t seem fair.

Then you went back to your room and woke up Roxy. You remember them clearly as they shuffled after you out into the TV room, in fluffy slippers and a nightdress with round little ducks on, their mass of curls bleached and dyed pastel pink at the time. You led them over to the sofa and sat them down, and then went up to the large TV set and typed in your parents’ password. That was before you both had your eyes done, and you remember the TV light reflecting off their large brown irises as their gaze followed you in awe.

“We’re going to watch the real Hunger Games tonight,” you explained importantly, sitting down next to your little sibling. “That’s how you become an adult.”

“But I’m only nine,” Roxy pointed out, hugging their stuffed cat close to their chest. “Are you sure that’s allowed?”

“We don’t have to care about what’s allowed once we’re adults,” you said, your voice severe. “And I’m not going to become an adult all on my own. We have to do it together. That way, no one gets left behind.”

Roxy was always running after you, always eager to impress their older sister, so you knew exactly what to say to make them agree. You’re a bit ashamed of it now, but back then you only felt elation when they took your hand in theirs, nodding solemnly at you. You were going to do this together. Then, you vaguely felt, you’d no longer need anyone but each other anymore. Adults didn’t care if they were left on their own all the time, or if somebody never listened to them when they wanted to talk about important things. They found other adults that _would_ listen, more influential and intelligent adults, and they never felt abandoned at all. And if Roxy grew up too, you wouldn’t have to feel like it was your job to look after a little sibling who was only two years younger, they wouldn’t need so many things that you didn’t know how to give. No one would keep telling you, _Take care of your little sister, will you?_ Because you’d both be adults who didn’t need taking care of.

You think you were smart enough even back then to see the flaws in your own logic, to understand that life wouldn’t automatically undergo some radical transformation just because you’d been able to glimpse something you shouldn’t. But you’d been formulating this plan for a long while by then, and you weren’t going to give up on it just because you were slowly becoming aware of how complicated and unfair life was. Or to put it another way, you were in denial, and perhaps what you wanted most of all was to act out and do something that was forbidden. Maybe you were just hoping that they’d get angry or worried for once.

You sat there for hours, hand in hand, watching the live updates. The arena was somewhere very far north, a landscape of rocky scrubland and low mountains, with only a few scrawny, ground-hugging trees here and there. The sun didn’t properly set at night at all, so the usual lull during nighttime was replaced by tributes hunting each other down in the strange golden twilight which bathed everything, possibly because the night was also far too cold for anyone to get any sleep.

Roxy shrank against you as two tributes ran at each other screaming, swinging their weapons, the clash of metal against metal almost deafening as they both tried to overpower or disarm the other. Once one of them was finally hacked down, the other was bleeding profusely from his thigh and his shoulder, dragging himself away as he shook with blood loss, shock and cold. You have to admit you felt a kind of relief when the quiet boy appeared behind him, quickly and effectively finishing his enemy off from behind without any of that noise or anger. Then he bent down with an inscrutable expression on his face, slowly loosening his fallen foe’s fingers until he could take his sword, closed his eyes, and moved on without looking back.

They showed how the quiet boy had built a small shelter of moss and hardy branches during the day and had spent the first hours of the game sleeping soundly. He hadn’t properly partaken in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, only going close enough to grab some supplies before leaving in a haste. But once the night arrived, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be one of the reclusive survivors who tried to outlast the rest by avoiding them. He began hunting them down slowly and methodically, starting by doubling back until he was just out of eyeshot of the Cornucopia and moving out in slowly widening circles. He left the pack of other career tributes strictly alone to start with, going after the weaker targets, and occasionally during that night the cameras would cut back to the career pack as they exchanged worried glances when the cannon went off and they weren’t the reason. That was four times all in all, once because of the violent duel earlier and three times because of the quiet boy.

You’d wondered if maybe the other careers hadn’t wanted him in the pack because he was so quiet, or maybe because he was just fifteen. You hadn’t considered that maybe he’d declined to join them, that had come later. Instead you’d thought about the other children at some of your parents’ social gatherings, how they called you strange and told you that you didn’t know how to play properly because you always took things so seriously. You’d felt some kind of vindictive satisfaction then, as the quiet boy refused to play by anyone else’s rules, setting out to win the games on his terms. It was a mark of your own lack of maturity that you saw yourself in his actions, as if you truly could understand what he was feeling or why he acted as he did. You, a protected Capitol child who would never end up in the Games. It was pitiful, really.

It wasn’t that the deaths hadn’t disturbed you, of course they did, or as if you didn’t understand that it was fundamentally unfair. But it was the way the world worked, and at the time your scope of how to change it was very narrow, focused only on you and your sibling and your own place in it. The children on the screen were far away, and even as they served to substantiate your belief that life was arbitrary and cruel, you hadn’t yet progressed to the point where you could involve them in the solution. All you could do was try to sympathize in whichever ways came most naturally to you at the time.

Roxy, on the other hand, had no such carefully constructed mental insulation, and what they saw was simply the lies about the Games they’d been fed getting peeled back one by one. There were no cartoony deaths, no lessons to be learned, no ‘bye bye’ to the tributes that were lost. You watched your sibling cry and desperately hug their stuffed animal, and realized too late that there really was no way of turning a child into an adult by forcing them to go about things the way adults did. All you got when you tried was a miserable kid. But when you suggested that they should stop watching and go to bed, they adamantly shook their head and rubbed their nose, determined to see things through to the end. You’d said you were going to do this together, after all.

When your parents came home early in the morning, they were at first upset with the babysitter, but you’d said it was your idea to watch the Games once he fell asleep. Then they were amused, you could tell from the glances they exchanged, even though they scolded you for keeping Roxy up after bedtime and scaring them. They were too young to understand, your parents said. If children who were too young watched the Games before their brains had developed enough to properly deal with what they saw, it could lead to inappropriate thoughts and actions. They said, _If you want to be a big girl and watch the Games together with us, that’s wonderful, dear. But you have to promise never to let your sister watch them again until we say so._

They said, _You don’ t want your little sister to think bad and _ _unsuitable _ _things, do you? That’s how people become Avoxes, you know._

So that was it. You were grown up enough to watch the Games now, and there was no going back, but you had to protect your sibling from it. Those were the stipulations of your new existence. But Roxy couldn’t sleep at night because they worried about what was happening in the Games, so you would watch it with your parents and then slip into bed next to them and whisper everything that had happened instead. That couldn’t be as bad as watching the actual Games, right? Just _telling_ them without showing it was practically the same as what the kids’ show was doing anyway, and they were still allowed to watch that.

Except of course that you weren’t a clever propaganda master who had doctored in child psychology, and so you told your sibling the ugly truth instead of the sugar coated, pastel colored lie. And your sweet sibling who cared for all living things, gentle Roxy who always was the one to make peace when their friends fell out, indeed started to have dangerous, inappropriate thoughts. Rebellious, Capitol questioning thoughts. They would whisper those thoughts to you in your room at night, voice their fear of being found out, their frustration at feeling like they were all alone in feeling this way. You told them that you felt the same, that you knew they were right, but made them promise to keep quiet about it it. You couldn’t let anyone turn your sibling into an Avox, after all. If they were really a traitor to the Capitol for questioning the Games, then you had to keep anyone from finding out about it. You had to keep them safe.

The next year the quiet boy returned to the arena, and this time he didn’t wait before he started killing. You watched in mounting horror as he mercilessly brought down his opposition in record time, only having to hunt down those who were either clever or frightened enough to run. As you found yourself repulsed by his actions, his continued indifferent silence as he put his fellow tributes to death, you found yourself wondering why. Was it because there was no identifying with a monster like that, no way of justifying what he was doing? Was it because it made _you_ feel bad, because you had projected some part of your own ego onto this victor, and now that illusion meant you had to take responsibility for your own lack of humanity? Were you just like a small child, throwing a tantrum because someone had denied you your favorite toy?

You watched your parents talk badly about the quiet boy, about the Gamemakers for not stopping him in time, about how the Games had been ruined this year, and in your twelve-year-old eyes they were now truly despicable creatures. They didn’t have the guts to recognize what it was they objected to, they just complained, acting as if they were so much better. While Roxy curled up in bed at night and whispered, “It’s not right. Everyone acts like he’s so bad, when he’s only doing exactly what they want him to. If he’s so bad, then that means the Games are even worse.” You watched as a ten-year-old had the guts to cry about the unfairness of it all, to ball their fists and sob into their pillow, while everyone else just whined and moaned like spoiled babies. And slowly, far too early, you learned how to hate. You learned how to fear, too.

One day you knew your sibling would risk their voice to speak out against the foulness you’d discovered, and you couldn’t let that happen. But you couldn’t let things be either, or you’d be just another rotten idiot bawling for sweeties. So there had to be another way, a better way. You were still too young to figure it out, but one day you wouldn’t be. One day, you’d show them.


	6. Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never really leave the Games, but at least you can find ways to make life a little bit sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally done with this chapter at 3.30 like a complete boss. NSFW ahead in this one.
> 
> also we have reached the point where i have to switch perspective within the chapter already, but hopefully it should be clear who everyone is.

You sit quietly next to Dirk Strider as he seems to disappear somehow, his face like a locked door. Not sure what you can possibly say beyond what feeble condolences and apologies you’ve already offered, afraid that however you intend them your words might do more harm than good, all you have to offer him is your silent company. You wish there was something you could do for him, but you suspect he isn’t even considering his own position as much as his brother’s. And for that, there really is no help, is there?

As physically identical as the brothers truly are, bar a few minor cosmetic differences, they really are very different. Dave might maintain an aloof expression if at all possible, but he’s actually a surprisingly animated person despite this, talking a fair bit with his hands, and he’s always eager to pass some time in conversation. Or to put it another way, the chap would probably strike up a conversation with a wall if no other option presented itself. He’s witty and charismatic, instantly likeable, but also rather socially clumsy, with a noted talent for putting his foot right in his mouth at awkward moments.

His brother instantly gives a very different impression. You try out the words ‘subdued’ and ‘reserved’, but find that they don’t merely fall short, but in fact don’t fit the bill at all. There’s nothing withdrawn about Dirk, he’s certainly no shrinking violet, it’s simply that he’s not as effortlessly outgoing as his brother. There also appears to be no accidental or impulsive component to the way he moves and talks, as if he is at all times calculating how he’s perceived and controlling his reactions. You suppose this could be a sign of awkwardness or reticence, except instead the impression he gives is of someone who is barely restraining himself, as if there is more of him than he readily knows what to do with.

“So when is it likely to start?” Lost in thought, Dirk’s sudden inquiry makes you jump, and he lifts his eyebrows slightly at your reaction. You smile apologetically, awkwardly, and it takes you a moment to realize he just asked you a question.

“Ah, you mean…?”

“Not many things I could be referring to, is there?” He shrugs one shoulder, jostling you slightly since you sit so closely together on the love seat. “I’m assuming the bidding is already going and I suppose I’d like to know what time frame I’m looking at. Will it be tonight?”

His voice is flat, seemingly calm, but you’re not going to draw any conclusions based on that alone. All kinds of people deal differently with the news. You heard that terrifying girl from Seven actually trashed her room and then spat right in her first client’s face… and there’s a small part of you that wishes that you’d have to guts to do something like that too. Regardless of how you react to it, however, it’s not an easy thing to come to terms with. One of the few freedoms still afforded to the people in the districts is the right to choose your lovers or your spouse as you will, with no involvement from authorities other than what is required assign newlyweds to their new dwellings. Sure, there are always those who will take advantage of others, and not nearly enough regulations to prevent it, but that’s a far cry from knowing that your loved ones hang in the balance if you resist.

“Probably not. They usually need a bit of time to sort out the, ah, the order-”

“They need to figure out who has dibs on my presumed virginity. Got it.”

“Something like that, yes,” you say, your voice weak. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t see why, it’s not your fault. I’d say out of everyone currently involved in this situation, you probably qualify as the person who officially has the least responsibility for my predicament.” The sound he makes is too mirthless to truly be laughter, and comes off more as a forceful exhale. “Even Dave is technically more to blame than you, if you count hyping me up to my future clients while trying to save my life. Which I suppose I can’t blame him for.”

“Well… perhaps I feel as if someone ought to feel sorry for it all, and it sure as buggery isn’t going to be the bastards who are actually to blame!” You clench your fist around the armrest of the seat. “And I’d like to make it clear that I certainly do not count your brother among them.”

“Yeah, well, of course you don’t. I’m sure _he _is sorry about what he had to do, as if I don’t get exactly why. I would’ve done the same.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you look down. Most people would do just about anything in their power to get a loved one out of the arena alive; it’s just that most people have little power to affect such outcomes at all. Nevertheless, you cannot imagine what it must’ve been like for Dave, to smile and make nice with those who thought only of his brother as a diversion, a new pleasure, while he was fighting for his life against other children. To share their beds and feign interest in their petty intrigues and shallow interests, flatter their egos and talk about his brother in whichever way might tempt them. You have no idea if you could have been that strong.

“Anyway,” you say, “I’d guess they will have worked things out by tomorrow. So that’s...”

“When I should probably expect them to request my company? Fuck, they don’t shit around wasting time, do they? Nah, silly me, they wouldn’t want me going off and lowering my market value, would they? Fresh out of the arena and as untouched as possible, that’s the idea, isn’t it?”

You say nothing, only wrap your arms around your midriff and sigh. He’s not exactly wrong. You stealing Dirk away had been a risky move, and only permissible because it feeds into their fantasies while being seen as relatively harmless. They don’t expect you to seduce him right away. As a matter of fact, what they actually assume is probably that you are trying to profit off his current popularity by presenting yourself and him as a tantalizing joint suggestion. Your little show back there probably came off as advertisement. That’s how self-centered they are.

You hate them. You hate the whole predatory lot of them.

Dirk is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again there’s less of that curious edge of detachment in his voice. “What about you? They had to wait before they could get to you, right? So… did you ever consider taking that particular pleasure away from them? Making sure that they wouldn’t be the first?”

You swallow, heat rising on your cheeks. “I- I did… consider it, yes.”

In the corner of your eye, you see him tilting his head slightly. “Obviously this is none of my fucking business, but if you mind my asking then you don’t have to answer. You seem to be implying that you didn’t, and if that’s the case… why not?”

You rub one hand with the other, distractedly following the path of a pale scar across the palm of your hand. Sustained after your victory, and therefore not erased from your skin. A fish hook, wasn’t it? “Well, partly that was all before I’d spent more time in the Capitol, and believe it or not, I’m- I’m not particularly comfortable around most people. I’ve got a complete humdinger of a nervous streak. So I’m not at all sure I would’ve been able to woo anyone even if I tried.”

Dirk Strider gives you an incredulous look. “There is literally no possible way for you not to be aware what you look like. It doesn’t actually matter what’d come out of your mouth, hell, I imagine you wouldn’t even have to talk at all if you didn’t want to. Just flexing in someone’s general direction should suffice.”

You pull at your shirt again, but it stubbornly stays where it is. “Funnily enough, that never occurred to me at fourteen or even fifteen years of age. Confidence is another checkmark on the long list of everything I can fake a lot better than I ever could hope to manage the genuine article.”

He flinches, and after a moment looks away. “Sorry,” he says curtly.

You shake your head with a pale smile. “No no, I suppose I can see what you mean. Anyway, that wasn’t actually my main reason. I suppose more than anything, I was worried that- that I’d just give them someone else to threaten to keep me in line, another person to worry about all the time. Dragging some poor innocent girl into this… it didn’t seem fair.”

He turns back to you, and for a long while just appears to study you carefully, his eyes unreadable behind his shades. Then he shakes his head with a very faint, very strange little smile. “You’re a much better person than me, English. Not to suggest that this is much of an achievement, definitely not something anyone will hand you a crown or even a shitty medal for, but you are. That thought didn’t even occur to me.”

“Well, your situation is very different,” you reply hastily, not wanting him to think that you were in any way trying to shame him. “It’s all a lot more urgent, after all. I at least had almost two years to think about it.”

“That’s not really a problem in itself,” he shoots back. “I’m good at thinking on my feet. Anyway, two years of contemplating my inevitable debasement doesn’t seem like much of an upside, to be honest. I think I’ll pass.”

You can’t help laughing, even if it’s such a terrible thing to say. You suppose it really is as you said earlier, and joking like this is the only way of managing the unbearable.

“But you know, if I could actually find a guy tonight who I wanted more than these pieces of filth, I would do it. If I wasn’t stuck in this place, I would try. I don’t actually care who my maidenly goddamn honor gets handed off to, I could give less of a fuck, but I guess I just don’t want to give them the satisfaction. The inevitable conclusion is that the one thing I really value, deep down, is spite.”

No, the thing he values more than anything is obviously his brother, but you don’t mention that. You’re not that unkind. Instead you strike out for a less sore, but nonetheless somewhat pertinent topic. “So you- you have a preference, then?”

He snorts. “I suppose. Don’t you? You were the one talking about not wanting to make some poor girl fall desperately in love with you just now.”

“Well, I- Not really.” You feel your cheeks growing warmer once again. “I guess when I was younger that was just what I assumed, you know? Marrying a girl, starting a family...” You smile, but you have a feeling it’s not very convincing. “Of course, that’s not really possible now.”

“Not so much,” he says, and you suspect it’s the diplomatic answer. He has probably never been as naive as you used to be. Back when you’d never even considered what it would be like, to be someone watching their child walk down the path toward the Justice Building, as the crowd falls deadly silent around them.

“But that has very little to do with my preferences, as such,” you say quickly, to cover up that particular aching wound in your heart. “I can’t say it matters much to me either way… thankfully.”

“Thankfully?” He gives you a blank look for a moment, before the penny seems to drop and he actually shudders. It’s a more visceral reaction than you were expecting from him. “Oh joy,” he says flatly. “So that’s another thing to look forward to. This evening has supplied such an abundance of delightful surprises, I hardly even know how to contain myself.”

What can you do? You feel so helpless sitting there next to him, hands clenched in your lap now, as if you’ve run out of things to fuss or fiddle with, or perhaps you have just accepted that it doesn’t make anything better. Beside you sits a boy two years your junior, and he seems both younger and older than you at the same time, impossibly balanced between the experiences you have and he lacks, and the fight he obviously possesses and you cannot seem to muster. In the end, you suppose you are both young because the Capitol demands that you are, and old because they took some part of childhood away forever. Both vulnerable, both already wounded. Can you help him? No. Can you save him? No. This is just another kind of arena, where the cardinal rule is that you can save no one. It’s foolish to even try.

All you can do is make things a little bit more bearable, just for a while.

You pick one of the flowers that hang heavy from the side of the trellis surrounding you, dark purple and rich with heady scent, and after a moment’s hesitation you lean in closer and push its graceful stem into Dirk Strider’s pale blonde hair. It’s heavily styled and offers some resistance, but you carefully make a path with your finger, twining together stem and hair before you let go. He stares at you, mouth hanging open very slightly. One of his hands is raised as if he’d considered defending himself, but then lost the thread of that thought completely once it was clear that there was no threat to dispel.

It’s strange, but you find that you’re not actually acting when you carefully place your hand on his cheek and run your thumb along your bottom lip. It’s a gesture you’ve preformed so many times before, you could possibly do it in your sleep, but somehow this is different. Your heart beats with something that is neither apprehension or terror, but which makes you feel every bit as dizzy.

“I believe you were saying something about how if you could find a fellow who wasn’t one of those objectionable creatures down there, there was something you wanted to do…?” You trail off, just a touch hesitantly, trying to pick up any indication that it’s safe to continue in this manner. Or at the very least gauge if you ought to back off post haste before he breaks your hand. At this point it feels prudent to wait for his move.

Dirk Strider tenses, and when you’re this close you actually manage to catch the brief moment of uncertainty that flickers in his eyes. Then he lets out the breath you hadn’t even noticed he was holding, his eyes drifting shut, and a moment later his lips close around your thumb, his teeth and tongue brushing against it in a way that makes you briefly forget how to breathe in turn. He only does it for a second or two before letting go, but by then you’re already so desperate for his touch that you completely throw caution to the wind. There’s no space for anything more elaborate, no opportunity to go anywhere more sensible, no time at all because what little you have is already borrowed, and ticking away fast towards tomorrow. But as you urgently pull him into your lap and kiss him for the first time, you’re absolutely certain that none of that matters.

* * *

You have absolutely no fucking idea what you’re doing.

It wasn’t exactly like Bro ever sat you and Dave down for a talk about this kind of thing, which you understand is something most normal parents do. So what you do know is a patchwork of the sterile and incomplete information you get at school, and whatever you’ve managed to overhear from others your age, which you suspect is prone to exaggeration and misinterpretation. Whatever knowledge you gleaned from watching other boys your age giggle hoarsely over the image of a naked breast in a school book, or from listening to the gossip about what exactly ‘counts’ as losing your virginity, you don’t actually feel like it’s a lot of help.

The only reason you’re certain that you prefer men is because all that was required to figure that out was the ability to observe and compare other human beings and draw certain conclusions from your own reactions. But you wouldn’t say that some rather vague fantasies about shirtless stone cutters along with very occasional bouts of hands-on self exploration counts as experience. Especially when there’s only so much you can get up to when you share a room and a bed with your brother.

Fuck, why are you overthinking this so badly? That was your first kiss just now, and you were too goddamn busy freaking out about being inexperienced to register all that much of it apart from that it was damp and felt kind of clumsy, which was probably your own fault. English certainly knows what he’s doing, after all. Shit, the way he’d just hoisted you into his lap as if you weigh nothing… you liked that part. You’d think it would make you feel helpless and a bit silly, but no, you think you’ll allow him to haul you around as much as he wants for the time being. You’ll be sure to tell him that when your mouth and mind aren’t quite as occupied.

The whole being in his lap thing is something you could get used to as well. You’ve got to admit that it would be more comfortable if the hard iron in the couch wasn’t digging into your knees, but there’s a lot about the situation that makes up for this minor inconvenience. The way English’s muscular shoulders and neck feel under your fingers, his hands running up and down your thighs and hips, the heat of his body, the way his breathing has noticeably picked up already. He kisses you again, and this time you pay a bit more attention, taking care to minimize the involvement of bumping noses and clicking teeth. It’s more pleasant this time, but also strange, almost a bit violent. Or… no, that’s not the word, is it? Like a mutual and consensual invasion of each other’s privacy, both a challenge and a surrender at once. Intimate, maybe.

Then his mouth moves from your mouth to your cheek, your jaw, your neck, only halting to seal his lips around your skin and suck hard on it, and some kind of sound leaves your lips completely against your will. You definitely never authorized whatever that was, half low moan, half wordless plea, breathy and hoarse and barely sounding like your voice at all. But if English would just- just do whatever it was he just did again, you’re actually completely fine with making that sound again. Maybe if you tilt your head to the side and bare your neck to him, he’ll get the message? Seems like a good plan.

Except this time around he sinks his teeth into your neck instead, and your hips jolt forwards violently on their own accord in response, because apparently you like getting bitten? You’re not about to question anything right now. His breath caught when you moved against him, and as you press closer you can feel that he’s getting hard, which is nice. Angling yourself against him and rubbing your ass experimentally against his crotch gets you a sharp sound that seems to come from deep within his chest, and his grip on your hips tightens. You imagine his fingers leaving bruises on your skin and rub against him again, pressing your lips together hard. Then one hand leaves your hips and you’re considering complaining about it, except he buries it in your hair and grips it hard, kissing you breathless and then tilting your head back and getting to work on your neck again.

It takes only a few minutes of this before you’re practically frantic, your muscles tense as you shudder and jolt against his body with very little control. A thought somewhere at the back of your mind tells you that this ought to frighten you, but somehow the lack of restraint feels like relief, only makes you eager to experience more of this, more of him. Another thought tells you that you probably ought to be embarrassed, it must be painfully obvious how little experience you have, but you don’t care, you’re so beyond caring. Part of you wants this to go on forever, but at the same time the dull ache that has settled in your crotch is telling you something different. Leaning in to nip at his earlobe and leave a trail of lingering kisses behind it, you try not to sound desperate as you whisper, “More?”

He doesn’t reply, at least not with words, but a moment later you feel his hand unbuttoning your pants and pushing your underwear down, wrapping around you without hesitation. It feels so warm, so solid on your sensitive skin, that all you can really do is gasp and press against him, thrusting involuntarily into his grasp. You can still feel his hard cock through the tight material in his tiny shorts, and try to roll your hips against him as he slides his hand down your length and up again, but it’s not an elegant movement. You know the moment his hand moves that you have no real hope of lasting very long, it feels far too good and you’ve already worked yourself up to the point that just breathing on you might be enough. Not that you’re eager to test that theory.

Instead you try to warn him, but all that comes out when you open your mouth is another urgent moan, even louder and sharper than the ones before. He makes a hushing sound against your neck, but the quiet laugh that follows it takes the edge off it. “Maybe the entire Capitol doesn’t need to know what we’re doing?” he suggests, dragging his lips along your jawline.

“Eng- _Jake..._ I’m going to- Fuck, I don’t think I can-”

“You know, I figured as much,” he murmurs back, pressing a soft kiss where your jaw meets your neck. He starts moving his hand faster, and you have to bite down on your own lip to stop from keening in desperation. That’s not going to happen. “Go ahead. I want you to. Please, do it for me.”

The way his voice drops down at the end of that sentence is absolutely more than you can take, and the sheer intensity makes your eyes drop shut as you draw in a shuddering breath, your body tensing as the pleasure crests and swallows you. A second later you breathe out explosively, shuddering and writhing feebly against his steady grasp on you. Of all the things you’d expected to feel at this moment, _safe _would not even have made the list, but somehow that’s all you can really think of as you sag against him and allow him to support you while you catch your breath. You feel cared for, protected, and as absurd as that is it’s still a nice feeling.

When you open your eyes you see that he has neatly caught your release in his hand and is licking it away casually, as if doing so is an afterthought. You decide not to say anything about it, because you’ve already made it abundantly clear that you’re a complete novice, and you don’t need to drive home the point further. Instead you shift your position slightly, leaning back a bit so that you can look down at him pointedly, running your thumb along the rather prominent outline of his erection, pleased when his breath catches.

“My turn?” you say, raising one eyebrow in a challenge, trying to act as if you weren’t a shivering mess in his arms just a moment ago.  
“You- You don’t have to,” he says hesitantly, and you roll your eyes.

“What if I want to?” you demand. His gaze flickers again, as if he’s worried about anyone interrupting you, or as if he’s not certain he should be doing this, but then he nods his assent. You’re not sure why you’re relieved, but you have a feeling that it’s not just because it seems like common courtesy to return the favour. You quickly bury any speculations about rejection and how it would make you feel, however, and focus on the task at hand, as it were.

It takes him longer, which isn’t exactly surprising, and you don’t mind at all. It’s quite a different angle than when you do this to yourself, but you try to move your hand the way he had done, taking note of the sounds he makes and the way his expression shifts. You kiss his neck, his hairline, his lips, his collarbones and shoulders, as far down his chest as his shirt allows, and then you inch it down slightly to leave a few private marks on his dark skin. You watch his sea green eyes widen, listen to his breath speeding up, revel in how he slowly unravels bit by bit, and how powerful he is in the unmaking. Remember this, you think to yourself. Remember that this is what it’s supposed to be. Remember that this is possible, and that no one can take this away from you.

English’s thighs tense underneath you, he tilts his head back and grits his teeth, and you’re almost too distracted by how unfairly stunning he looks to catch it when he says, “Now,” in a voice that is barely more than a breath. But you still do, and you’re prepared when he finally lets go, drawing in quick, harsh gasps of air through beautifully parted lips, his body surging against you the way you’ve always imagined that the sea moves, even though you’ve never seen it. You’re not sure what to make of how powerful that makes you feel, how pleased with yourself you are, that you could bring him pleasure like this. It’s a bit silly, you’re sure that your efforts have been charmingly amateurish at best, but you can’t quite manage to shake the notion. And in its wake comes gratitude, spreading its warmth through your chest as you think about him letting you touch him like that, wanting you to touch him, and in turn deciding to be the first to touch you.

You hope to fuck that none of this is showing on your face. You try to focus on his expression instead, thinking that it will be easier that way, and you’re taken completely aback by how vulnerable he suddenly looks. He lifts your hand to his lips, gently licking and sucking your fingers clean, and somehow it’s not so much a sensual gesture as an affectionate one, which is a lot stranger and much more overwhelming, certainly a lot more dangerous. Then he wraps both his hands around yours, leaning his forehead against them and sighing.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “I… I’ve never done that just because I wanted it before. Thank you.”

His voice cracks a little bit, and you’re glad that his eyes are hidden behind his hands right now, because you’re not sure you’d be able to deal with tears. Feeling strangely helpless, you just lean your cheek against his thick black hair, waiting for him to collect himself a bit. You feel like you ought to say something glib about how this is a first for both of you then, but somehow nothing comes to you. So you say nothing, allowing the moment to just be what it is. That’s enough for now.

* * *

You watch the soft golden light of dawn seeping slowly into the blue dome above, and below it the streets of the Capitol lay silent. Only a few will brave the early hour, most of them in a bleary search for their own beds or at least any bed where they are welcome. About nine hours earlier, Dirk was sent off to his first assignment with a patron, as they put it, and you have spent the night awake and waiting for your brother. You are still staying in the flat in the Tribute Center, and the stylists and escort made a point of giving you a lot of space all evening. You’re grateful, even if you’re not exactly in a state to show it. They have to stick around, because soon it will be time to prep Dirk for his triumphant, televised return to District Two, which the audience will be expected. Any other patrons who crave his company will have to wait until that’s over and done with, or people will certainly start to ask questions.

You hear the door open and jump to your feet, halfway on your way there by the time he has kicked off his shoes. He looks tired, and that’s all you can really read from his expression. You expected this, of course. He doesn’t want you to worry, and he’ll try in every way he can to convince you that he’s doing fine. The fact that you both know he’s not will hang between the two of you like a painful, inconvenient weight that nothing can shift. You already know exactly how this whole exchange will go, and the worst part is understanding that knowing won’t change it.

So you don’t try to get him to talk about how he feels, because he won’t. You just pull him with you back to your bed, where you’d been watching dawn paint the pastels of the city in warmer hues outside your window. You pass him a cup of hot chocolate which you’d instructed one of the Avoxes to keep ready for him and lean your cheek on his shoulder, pulling your blanket across to that it covers your legs and his.

“Who was it?” All you know is that it wasn’t Cronus, because you’d heard he’d been a foul mood about someone outbidding him on the first night. At least that’s a small relief. That’s the last thing either you or Dirk needs right now.

“Eh, some chairman or other. He’s got weird tattoos of some kind of reptile eyes on his eyelids.”

“Oh. That guy.” Not the worst alternative for the first night, at least. “The one who is really fucking weird about smelling random parts of your body, right?”

“Thank fuck, I wasn’t sure if that was just a me thing,” Dirk says, and somehow actually gets a laugh out of you.

“Nah, he does that with everyone. I think he’s had some kind of surgery to enhance his sense of smell or something? Or maybe that’s just a fantasy of his, who even knows. When a man sticks his nose in your armpit you don’t really feel like asking him too many questions about it, it’s the darndest fucking thing.”

“Sounds like coward talk to me,” Dirk replies, and for a moment his arm tightens around your waist, his hand shaking a bit, and you bump your forehead against his neck in reply. That’s the best you can do as far as actually expressing how fucked up this is goes. Among the many things your Bro never bothered to teach you, how to convey emotions is right on top of that really goddamn long list. Still, you make an attempt.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Breathing feels like it’s slowly tearing something inside you open, ripping at the seams of a scream you’ve been holding in for a whole year. “I wanted to. I tried to. Fucking hell, I wanted so badly to spit it out before the Games just in case it would make you reconsider, but it just- I couldn’t- it just got stuck every time I tried.”

“I know.” Dirk shrugs, slowly relaxing against you, allowing you to take some of his weight. “It wouldn’t have changed my mind, though.”

“Maybe not.” You’ll never know for sure. That’s the worst part. Maybe it would’ve. Maybe he could’ve been safe. Even if it’s the slimmest of possibilities, the fact that it’s a possibility at all feels like a judgment, a failure.

“I get it, though.” A pause, another small squeeze of his arm. “Anyway, you got someone to tell me before the Capitol people did, right? So thanks for that.”

You could fucking cry with relief. “If I were actually planning to have kids, I’m pretty sure I would now officially owe English my firstborn. I wasn’t sure if he was going to, but… he did?”

“Yep.” He hesitates. “The day before yesterday... we were gone for a while there. Didn’t you notice?”

“Dude, I got cornered by your prep team first, and then that fucking mad victor from Seven decided to show someone how accurately she could throw an entire carving knife and she honest to god nailed my sleeve to the table with it. After I’d had a quiet and dignified heart attack, I had to go find the bathrooms and try to wash meat juices off my cuff. I could hear her laughing all the way in there, incidentally.”

Dirk is quiet, and he stays quiet for a while even after you finish talking. As if he’s deciding whether or not to tell you something, or that’s what it seems like. Then he just shakes his head with a little smile, perhaps shaking off a persistent thought, or just trying to clear his head. “He told me,” he repeats, as if he wants to reassure you. “He’s… different than what I expected. English, I mean.”

“Well, it kind of comes with the territory. He has to be really good at acting, considering how unreasonably popular he is. I know of at least twelve different people in the Capitol who are absolutely certain that he’s in love with them. I’m not sure if his acting chops or the depths of their vainglorious illusions are more impressive.”

Dirk snorts softly, but shakes his head. “Not just that. I guess what I mean is that I got a different impression of him from his Games than I did in person.”

“Not surprising.” Your Bro always acted as if the kind of face you presented to the world in the arena was the real thing, that everything outside was just an act and it was only in there that your true nature revealed itself. But you don’t believe that anymore. You refuse to believe that. In the arena, you faced down a group of frightened kids in a bloody duel, and then ran for your life from your own shadow until they caught you up and blinded you. In the arena, English showed off for the cameras and then let the cold, cruel water drag his opponents down. In the arena, your brother’s face had blended together with your Bro’s, until you had to force yourself to keep watching.

In the arena, you all did what you had to do, but you also did what no one should ever have to do. In there, you had no choice. The face you wore in there was a mirror, and it only reflected the Capitol.

“A lot of things are different than what they seem like in there,” is all you say, because you think he’ll know what you means.

“I guess so.” His cheek is pressed against your forehead now, and his eyes are closed. He looks so tired. You notice a dark mark at the base of his neck and think that it’s weird, you don’t remember the lizard-eyed chairman being a biter. You imagine him with little conical teeth like an actual lizard, scaly skin, claws curling around Dirk’s limbs as he flicks his tongue at him. You shudder, and as Dirk’s eyes flutter open and he gives you a questioning look, you give him a gentle shove, and another, until he gets the hint and lies down. Wrapping your arms around him from behind and burying your face in his back, you pretend that this is enough to protect him from anyone else who tries to hurt him. Just holding on like this. It never did back home in District Two, and it sure as shit isn’t going to here. But you pretend anyway.

“Let’s go home,” Dirk says.

“Let’s go home,” you agree.

The last thing you see is that he hasn’t touched his cup of chocolate. But you’d known he wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND NOW I SHALL SLEEP.


	7. Firestarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes so little to set greater things in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is it five in the morning, why do i do this c:  
but shhhh nevermind here's another chapter. again, there will be one perspective shift, but this one is super obvious at least.

It’s the first day of your brother’s Victory Tour, and you wake up with his hair tickling your eyelids as a grey dawn filters through the blanket of clouds outside. When you came back to District Two, you’d managed to convince your Bro that you should finally move into the Victor’s Village, and out of the shitty little house halfway up the mountain where you’d spent your childhood. He’s always had a place there, of course, but apparently felt that life there would be too soft, and so choose to forgo it. You are each separately entitled to your own dwelling now, but since you are family and the Victor’s Village in Two is not nearly as empty as it tends to be in some districts, you had agreed to stay at one place. Even one house is many times larger than what you’re used to, after all.

This means that you and Dirk now have separate rooms, but the winter in the mountains is vicious, and creeps through even the sturdy stone walls of this fancy-ass house. Besides, if you’re to be honest, you have spent your whole life sleeping next to him, with the only exceptions being when either of you were in the arena and when you were off on ‘business’ in the Capitol. It feels strange and disquieting to suddenly have a whole enormous bed all to yourself, and you keep waking up with your heart racing, sure that someone has taken your brother from you. So once the cold started setting in for real, you’d bundled up your blankets and gone to Dirk’s room, and he hadn’t protested, even if you’d bet that he suspects the real reason you’re there.

Bro has holed himself up in the attic, which you’re perfectly fine with. He brought most of his possessions up there too, so you can actually walk through your home without his creepy fucking puppets staring at you from every available surface, and you will probably never be eloquent enough to express what a relief that is. The talent Bro had chosen after his victory, apart from throwing children down mountain slopes and hiding his food supplies, was wood carving. You guess he’d already been pretty good at it, since the token he’d taken into his arena had been a small wooden puppet, but nowadays he’s always whittling away at a piece of wood if he’s not doing anything else, carving the arm or torso of a new puppet. And the damn things are _haunting_. It had taken you a while as a child to figure out why their features seemed familiar to you, why it made you feel so sad and scared to look at them, and why they’d follow you into your dreams. Then one evening they were playing reruns of your Bro’s first Games – they never played the second, and you’d only ever seen it on the tape he owns – and right as he shoved the girl from Four into that boiling hot spring, you’d looked up behind the TV and seen her face hanging from your wall. You’d almost lost your supper right then and there.

Now his gallery of people he’d killed or seen die lives out of sight upstairs, which probably means you have the scariest attics in all of District Two, but at least you don’t have to see that shit.

You prop yourself up on your elbow, giving Dirk’s shoulder a light shove. “Rise and put on your shiniest morning face, my dude. Your preps and your stylist are gonna be here soon and they’ll be in a hurry. It’s a longass trip to Twelve.”

Dirk grimaces slightly, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light. With the greyness of dawn washing the colours out of his face, his amber irises stand out even more than usual, making him look eerie and not entirely human. You can only imagine what your eyes make you look like. “Oh great. Just what I’ve been missing. I mean shit, how do we even survive out here without being tailed every day by an entire committee dedicated to making us pretty?”

“Eh, speak for yourself. It must be rough, being the ugly twin.” You grin at him, and his lips twitch slightly in that weird little almost-smile which is usually all he can manage.

“What can I say, not all of us can be born assless, Dave. Don’t make fun of my physical disadvantage.”

You snort and shove him out of bed, and he tumbles gracefully onto the thick carpet. Without batting an eyelid, he reaches up and grabs his shades off the nightstand, hiding his eyes behind the familiar black triangles. You sit up, shivering in the morning chill, and grab your own shades from right next to where his had been. Not the same as his, not anymore. You’d worn the same ones as Dirk and Bro all of your life, perfectly content in being completely indistinguishable from your twin brother once upon a time, and finding a sort of comfort in the way they instantly set you apart from the rest of the district. Now you’re old enough to question that feeling, to recognize the hurt at being distrusted and shunned by almost everyone in Two, and to understand that insulating yourself had been nothing short of a defense mechanism. But back then, it had been something to hold onto.

* * *

You’d arrived at the Capitol and had instantly been rushed off to prep, where you were hosed down and polished like a semi-precious gem. Then you were covered in white dust and painted with grey and gold streaks, wrapped in flowing white fabric until you resembled a marble statue. Through all of this you’d held on to your shades, and despite the obvious disapproval of your stylist, you’d worn them as you rode the chariot down to the City Center. They made it easier to avoid the gaze of the quiet girl right next to you, and while they caused a certain amount of amusement among the watching crowds, they also undoubtedly made you stand out. Most of the audience would know that your Bro was never seen without his own pair nowadays, and being seen as his successor would naturally get you sponsors. It was the sensible thing to do.

But it had grated on you, the way your Bro had outright ignored the girl tribute who came with you, only returning her questions with one or two syllables, refusing to talk strategy with her. He’d treated her as if she was already dead, as if any attempt she made to have even the faintest chance of survival was pitiable at best, a nuisance at worst. You’d argued with him, and he’d looked at you as if you were an idiot. “You think it would be kinder to lie to her, then?” he’d asked. “You think I should act as if I’m about to help her out once she’s in there? Much more humane, is it, to let her find out that she is on her own once she’s in the arena?”

“Fuck you,” you’d said, too angry to manage anything more eloquent. “You don’t have to lie to her, but you could at least answer her questions. You could give her some advice. You could stop pretending that she’s not even there, you heartless piece of shit.”

“And what good would that do, against a lifetime of my training? If I were to pit an unarmed man against a Peacekeeper, would it somehow be kinder to give him a stick to defend himself with?”

“Yes,” you snarled. “A stick is better than nothing. A few words is better than nothing. Being treated like a person is better than the alternative, but I guess if you knew the first fucking thing about that, you would’ve shown some kind of sign of it by now.”

He just shrugged then, and although his expression was as unchanged as ever, you had a feeling he was looking at you with something close to pity. “You’re asking me to give her hope. I can’t. There is no hope for her, and I won’t try to delude her into believing there is.” He fell quiet for a moment, and then turned away. “I’d suggest you give up that notion as well. The kindest thing you can do for her is to kill her yourself.”

That was when you’d torn the shades from your face and flung them hard against the wall, where they shattered with a loud crack. He didn’t turn around, and you walked away shaking with rage, slamming the door to your room so hard that a small decorative vase jumped off its shelf next to it and bounced away somewhere underneath your bed. Sitting down on your bed and staring down at your clenched, trembling fists, you tried to think about how much you hated your Bro, but instead all you could think about was how _stupid _you’d been. You’d broken your token, the one thing you were allowed from your district, your one link to your home and to Dirk. It didn’t matter how angry you had been, there were some things you should never do – and besides, what good had it done? Did you actually think that your Bro cared, that it had meant something to him?

There was a quiet knock on the door, and you glared at it, not sure who it could be. Definitely not Bro, and you hoped your stylist and escort weren’t stupid enough to disturb you right now. You didn’t answer, but even so the door slowly slid open, and in came the Avox boy who had served you at dinner. You hadn’t paid much attention to him then, but bewilderment made your eyes take in the details they had skipped over earlier. He was shorter than you, but also stockier, with unruly black hair and square rimmed glasses. His eyes were big and almond shaped, slightly tilted at the corners, and startlingly blue. He looked at you with a concerned frown, and then held out his hands, which were carefully cupped together, holding what was left of your shades.

You clenched your fists, prepared to yell at him to go, but when you opened your mouth all that came out was a wretched little broken sound, followed by a barely stifled sob. You lifted your arm across your face, not wanting him to see the terror in your eyes, feeling so pathetically exposed without the shades to hide you from the world. You felt the heat of tears seeping into your sleeve and pressed your face harder still against the textile, as if that would somehow stop the tears. You heard the door shut, and was sure he’d left, and now that he was gone you wished that he’d stayed. Even his voiceless company was better than being this alone.

Except suddenly there was a weight next to yours on the bed, and a steady arm around your shoulders. As you fought yourself to hold in the sobs, to control the unstoppable flow of tears, the Avox boy sat next to you and gently patted your back, making quiet, wordless sounds of comfort and commiseration. You had no idea how long you sat there, but once you could finally lower your arm, the Avox had pulled his legs up so he sat cross-legged next to you, watching you with a rapt expression. You felt stupid to have lost control like that, but somehow you knew that he didn’t judge you at all, and maybe he was one of the very few in the Capitol who could come close to understanding what you were feeling. After all, he was a slave too. For some crime against their despotic rule, they’d torn out his tongue and taken everything from him. It suddenly struck you that you knew very little about Avoxes, other than that they were considered traitors and were made to serve the other Capitol citizens. Did this one have a family out there? Was he ever allowed to see them anymore? He looked like he was a few years older than you, and you wondered how old he’d been when they’d carried out the gory dissection that left him mute.

“Thanks,” you said awkwardly. He grinned and gave you a double thumbs up, bumping his shoulder against yours in a companionable manner. You’d never seen one of them making any kind of facial expression, and you wondered if that was because they weren’t allowed to.

“Can I ask-?” you began, but he interrupted you by putting his finger over your lips, shaking his head rapidly. Right. You weren’t allowed to talk to them unless it was to give them orders. Your escort had told you. And you’d bet anything that your room wasn’t nearly as private as it seemed; there were probably secret cameras somewhere, and Capitol attendees watching your every move in here. You didn’t want to get him into more trouble than you probably already had.

“You can take those away,” you said, nodding tiredly at the mess of cracked black glass and snapped plastic that he’d put down on the nightstand. “They won’t let me take that into the arena now. Anyway, they won’t be good for much, right?”

He nodded his understanding, but hesitated on his way to pick them up, raising a finger in the air as if to show you that he had an idea. Then he disappeared from your room, and since he didn’t return that evening you dismissed his gesture, thinking you must’ve misunderstood it. You forgot it completely until the evening before the Games, when the Avox suddenly appeared in your room once again, smiling from ear to ear. He was holding his hands behind his back, and clearly wanted you to point at one of them to find out what he was holding. Humoring him, you pointed at the left one. Nothing. Using your amazing skills of elimination, you shifted your hand over to his right side. Nothing in that one as well. When you frowned in confusion, he winked, and then spun around to show you his back. Hooked into his belt were a pair of sunglasses, which you reached out and hesitantly took.

They looked nothing like yours at all, more rounded and kind of goofy looking. But he was smiling widely at you, pleased with his gift, and you found yourself wondering how much Avoxes were allowed to own. You’d wager it wasn’t much, if anything at all. He didn’t know you, and you didn’t even know his name, and still he’d gone out of his way to get you something to take with you into danger and maybe even death. Just because you’d been sad. Just to be kind.

You smiled back at him, sliding the shades onto your face. “Sweet. I guess this means you’d like to see less of my ugly mug, huh?”

He laughed, a strangely normal sound, and gently bumped his fist against your arm. You hesitated, glancing around, and then lowered your voice. “Hey, do you think there’s a way I could know your name? You know, for the thank you card and gift basket and all that.”

His eyes widened slightly, and his expression softened with both wariness and gratitude. You supposed most people forgot that he had a name at all. Then he took your hand and quickly spelled out four letters against your palm, and you hoped that to any cameras nearby it might look like a handshake, nothing more.

“Thank you, John,” you said, almost inaudibly, and he replied by tapping his finger against your chest. Thanking you in turn. You decided to carry that with you into the arena as well.

* * *

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and this is bullshit.

A day off from school is fine in principle, even though you personally far prefer being there to home. Well, not exactly a proper home. You live at the community housing with your little sister ever since your father died in the mines; your mother was already dead by then, hung by the neck in front of the justice building for attacking a peacekeeper who was harassing the district citizens. From what you’d heard, she’d managed to break her arm and put out her left eye, and you could only hope that she’d thought it was worth it.

Your home is a miserable dump, and those who are set to watch you are mostly drunk, sadistic, or a delightful mix of the two. The other kids are wary and hard, and had thought you an easy target at first, for fairly obvious reasons. They’d tried to steal what food you and Latula were given, push you around and have you blamed for their offenses. They had learned better, in time. Now they mostly leave you alone.

The point is that you wouldn’t mind some time to spend outside in the clear, crisp air, making snow sculptures with your sister or maybe running errands around the Hob for some scraps of food or a few knickknacks you could trade. Because of your mother, because she had been one of them, they look after you and treat you as one of their own as well. It also helps that Latula apparently looks just like her, and is brash and cheerful just like she was. It’s something that has kept you alive on bad winters, when the meager rations you are fed had dwindled to almost nothing. The people there had watched over you, given you what little they had to spare, and they had even taught you to fight. That sort of debt is hard to ever repay.

Either way, you can’t do anything actually useful or fun today, because the reason you have a free day is that it’s the first day of the Victory Tour, and along with the rest of the district you’re going to have to stand around like sheep and listen to some stiff and pointless speech from this year’s victor. You’ll admit that his brother had been pretty funny the year before, clearly refusing to read from his cards and rambling on in a way that somehow managed to be humorous without ever crossing the line into being outright disrespectful. In the arena, he’d come across the boy from Twelve as he lay dying, and had stayed with him and talked to him while the life faded out of him. His comments about his brief friend were respectful and poignant without getting soppy, and you’d appreciated that.

His brother seems like a real bore, though, and kind of full of himself. You’re not expecting much from him.

Latula has you by the hand and is leading you carefully through the crowd, her clear little voice ringing out occasionally to alert people that you’re coming through. Your own preferred method of moving through crowds, whenever the need arises, is to swing your cane wildly in front of you at about ankle height. Usually people around you get the hint pretty quickly and clear out of the way. It’s definitely a more fun method, but you suppose Latula’s way is more diplomatic, and will get you to a decent place to stand where you won’t be jostled a lot faster.

As you pass by a cluster of people on your right, you hear the unmistakable voice of one of your classmates, who will apparently never master the fine art of not projecting his voice as if he’s trying to be heard all the way to the Capitol. He grumbles about the crowd and the stupid Victory Tour, about how twisted it is that you have to stand here every year and cheer whoever turns out to be the better killer in the arena. It’s not like you don’t agree, but it’s a stupid thing to say out loud, and you’re not surprised when the boy’s father hushes him.

“That’s exactly the kind of shit you say all the time at home, you fucking hypocrite,” he shoots back, and you hear his little sister giggling.

“It’s true, dad. You say those things _all _the time.”

There’s the sound of a very gentle little smack, and then you cannot hear anything, but it’s followed by a muttered, “Sorry, mom. Sorry dad,” from your classmate. His mother is deaf, so her normal way of speaking isn’t exactly accessible to you, but you have to assume she’d told him off.

“It’s important that you don’t say things like that,” his dad says in a soft voice, presumably to the younger sister. “Promise me you won’t, Nepeta.”

“Okay. Pinky swear!”

Then you’re moving on, and you try to shake your irritation, but find it hard. It’s not actually his rather foolish indiscretion, or even you suppose envy of his obviously caring family. Your aggravation stems from further back than that, and at some level you know it’s silly. You’ve never even spoken to Karkat Vantas, not even once, despite sharing the same classroom every day. You_ hear_ him plenty, but apart from him being a bit bossy and having a ridiculously short temper, there’s nothing particularly objectionable about him. Honestly, he seems like a very decent and caring person. Which is why you can’t help hating him, just a little.

It had been just after your mother died, you were newly turned six and Latula was barely more than a baby. Rats had gotten to your grain, and you were too young yet to sign up tesserae. Your father, now supporting the family alone, would not be given his pitiful wages in three days yet, and in the evenings he was exhausted with grief. But your sister had done something that was even more terrifying than her days of ceaseless crying… she had stopped. When you held her, she only made faint noises, and to your terrified ears, her breathing sounded weak and fitful. So you’d done the only thing you could, and you had gone out begging, and failing that, scrounging something out of the trash of those who had more.

You’d been given nothing except a hard smack, and what you had found was pitiful and barely fit to eat. You’d bundled what you had in a handkerchief, burying your fingers in the cloth to protect it from the cold, but the rain was coming down hard and the flimsy textile was already soaked through. You were back in the Seam now, you could tell by the gravel underfoot and the reek of coal, and you knew there was little hope that those who already had as little as your family would have anything to spare. It hadn’t crossed your mind, back then, to try your luck at the Hob. You were still scared of it.

Then suddenly, you heard feet approaching close by, probably muffled by the rain up until then. You turned in their direction, demanded to know who was there, but you got no answer. Instead someone shoved a bundle of cloth into your hands, and you instinctively grabbed it, while trying not to stumble backwards from the sheer force of it. Your hands full, you didn’t have a chance to grab whoever was there, and from the sound of feet hastily retreating, there was no chance that they’d come back if you called. But just for a moment, as whoever it was had moved close to you, you’d smelled lavender and mint.

When you came home, your questing fingers and nose found that the bundle contained a small loaf of rough bread, a bowl of mushy mashed roots, and most precious of all, a bottle of goat milk. Milk and mashed roots for a starving toddler who hardly had any teeth yet. Bread for you and your father. A gift of survival for Latula, and new strength for you.

It wasn’t until you started school that you once again smelled lavender and mint, when you accidentally bumped into Karkat Vantas. The memory that returned was so visceral, you instantly knew that it was the same smell. No matter how many people you smelled after that, the only ones who smelled like that were Karkat and his family – you’d heard his father knew about medicinal herbs, that he would often help those who were too poor for doctors, and guessed he must be making some kind of scented soap for his family. The footfalls had been far too light to belong to an adult, and Nepeta wasn’t even born yet back then. It had to have been Karkat.

It wasn’t the charity as such that irked you; if you had been too stupidly proud for that sort of thing, you wouldn’t have been out begging in the first place. No, it was rather the anonymous nature of the gift, presented to you in a way that made it absolutely impossible to repay him, or even to say thank you. Even though you are certain it was him, it’s not like you can very well confront him on the matter based only on the smell of his soap. So every time you are around him and have to smell him, you remember that day, and you remember your helplessness, and you can’t bring yourself to forgive him. He saved your sister when you couldn’t, and he wouldn’t even allow you a chance to make it up to him.

“Here we are, sis,” Latula says, giving your hand a small squeeze. “I don’t think anyone will bother us here.”

“Can you see the platform from here, then?”

“Who cares?” she shoots back, nudging you playfully. In truth you’d guess that she’s at least a bit curious, but she knows you’re not and tends to want to agree with you. She’s a charming and brave girl, the kind of person you often wish you could be, but she wants more than anything to be liked by people, and sometimes is a bit too quick to comply with just about any opinion or instruction if she thinks it means she’ll get approval in return.

“Well,” you say, pretending to be serious. “It_ is_ mandatory viewing.”

“Is it? I guess that means you’re shit out of luck, right?”

You cackle and hold up your hand, and she obediently gives it a firm slap, which leaves your fingers slightly numb. You play up the pain, letting your arm fall slack and acting as if she has somehow slapped all the bones out of it, and she laughs delightedly even as she tells you to stop messing around. Then the loudspeakers crackle, causing you to flinch, and the Mayor of Twelve steps up to the microphone to introduce the victor.

Dirk Strider pretty obviously isn’t reading from a card either, and he at least keeps his speech brief. He didn’t kill either tribute from Twelve, nor did he have alliances with either of them, or anyone else for that matter. He’s respectful but distant, and you would feel completely vindicated in thinking that he’s a total bore, except for one thing. You can hear it so clearly, but you know others aren’t always as good as you at picking out such things, so you’re not sure if anyone else in the crowd is picking up on it. If they are, no one is saying anything, and the occasional mumbles and restless shuffling around you has the same feeling it usually does. Like cattle standing around in the yard, waiting for food or slaughter and only vaguely hoping it will be the former.

But you can no longer quite dismiss this victor as completely uninteresting. Because in his voice, tightly controlled but only more noticeable because of it, there is rage. More than you think you’ve ever heard before, but it does remind you of something. The sensations come to you as the memory unfolds. Your mother, brushing your hair, the sharp smell of white liquor behind you, almost overwhelmed by the smoke from the fire. She’d sung songs, old ones from her memory, her voice low and smooth and sweet as honey. Most of them were harmless enough, songs about love and home, about the mountains, about things that happened long ago. But a few were dangerous songs, songs about freedom and resistance, about never bending your knee to tyrants. Songs from the rebellion, passed down in secret and shadows, because to be heard singing them might mean forfeiting your life. And in your mother’s voice as she sang these songs, there was that same rage, woven into the sweetness of the notes like the burn within the sweet liquor on her breath. It had filled you up, like something waiting for only a spark to be set ablaze, though you’d been far too young to understand why. Then the rain had come, and the long years of hardship, and you’d thought that fire was gone for good.

It seems you were wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "can you hear the people sing" playing softly in the distance


	8. Pawn to E4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make the first move, in a game of high stakes and as yet unknown consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, for this chapter i think it will probably just be easier to say how the perspective changes. so the order goes like this:
> 
> dirk > rose > dave

The victory tour is almost over, thank fuck. You left District One yesterday for the big blowout in the Capitol, before you loop back and finish off with the celebration in Two. You’re really not looking forward to that last spectacle, because shit, what are you even supposed to say? ‘Hey everyone, as you’d known all along I won, there wasn’t even whisker’s shadow of a doubt that I would, and also I guess you all saw me killing the other tribute from here with my bare hands the first thing I did. It’s not like anyone has forgotten about that particular foray into what we might dub the badlands of highly apocryphal morals, so let’s not attempt to flog that dead equine carcass any longer. You’re welcome for all the extra food. Peace.’

Yeah, you’re not looking forward to it, like you said.

The party in the Capitol comes with its own challenges, but they are ones which you have gradually adapted to, and you think you can handle it just fine. It helps that the people you’ll be dealing with there are almost entirely the kind of people you wouldn’t mind locking in a very small box with a nest of tracker jackers and recording the results. It makes things easier. Loathing, hatred, even aggressive apathy are all straightforward points from which to approach interactions, regardless of having to feign interest and attraction for the time being. Your complicated relationship with the people on your own district, on the other hand, is a whole other arena full of horrors. These were the people who basically abandoned you and Dave to an obsessed madman with a sword, but as much as you might resent them for that, you also understand them. Your Bro was a victor, and probably the most terrifying one around, even counting the girl from One who made a game of putting out the eyes of her enemies with any sharp object at hand, and later had steel claws surgically implanted on her fingertips. Even the other victors of Two stay away from him. So why should anyone stick their neck out, risk getting on his bad side, for two unfriendly, strange and obviously violent kids? Besides, with your Bro training you, the odds were more in your favor than even other kids from Two, so perhaps it was worth it?

If it was just you, you’d say it was. If it was just you, it wouldn’t be so bad. But because Dave had to suffer too, Dave who could have been a completely normal kid if someone had just given him a chance, the issue is more complicated than that.

You walk after your prep team and stylist, your escort and Dave, listening idly to them chattering, the laughter as your brother cracks jokes, and then the doors to the banquet room swing open and the noise level goes from reasonable to deafening for a moment. You take in the enormous hall; the spread-out sofas and chairs, the oases of flowers and ponds and fire places, the dance floor, the tables practically buckling under their burden of food. It’s what you’re trained to do, take in every angle, understanding the lay of the land in front of you, and feels no different than ascending into the arena. The giant snag, one you’ve encountered several times at this point, is that the entire room is crammed full of people, and there is literally no way of keeping track of them all. The complete goddamn mayhem that is their brightly colored clothes, loud shrill voices and all the overpowering scents these chucklefucks apparently bathe in is just the icing on the sensory overload cake.

Once again, you notice the intense sense of impending predatory intent, but at least now you know why it’s so hard to pin down. It’s coming from too many targets, that’s why.

Not all of the people in here, of course. From what you understand, it is the privilege of a select group to be aware and invited to partake of the duties of a victor once the Games are over. Most of them are prominent sponsors, while a few are simply particularly influential Capitol citizens, or people who Scratch presumably owes favors to. There’s more than enough of them in here, certainly, to put you immediately on edge. Some you’ve already shared a bed with, you know their faces well, and you’re not planning on forgetting them. A fair few of them had specifically been interested in you because of your likeness to Dave, and a couple had even paid for the two of you together. If you manage nothing else during your personal quest for revenge, you will still make absolutely certain to take that particular humiliation out of their skin, their blood, and, for preference, their tears.

Something tickles your cheek, and it takes every ounce of your excellent self control to not spin around like cornered prey. Instead you turn your face calmly, only to be confronted by a large, purple flower. A very _familiar_ flower. Jake smiles at you from behind it, looking ever so pleased with himself, because he is a huge and terminally hopeless dork. He must have been waiting by the door ever since the party started, just so he could surprise you on your way in, and you try hard to not feel incredibly smug about this.

You fail miserably.

The Capitol idiots close to you giggle and joke among themselves as Jake leans in and places the flower in your hair, and somehow you can’t bring yourself to take the stupid piece of greenery out even though it must make you look like a tool. Because it smells just like the first time you met him, and because he must have remembered it and gone out of his way to get this flower despite it being winter… and because he’s the one person at this party who you’re actually happy to meet.

Your paths have crossed in the Capitol a few times this past year, as you were called in to attend on patrons and he was there on the same errand. The first time, you had both been on way back from your assignments, bumping into each other in the lobby of the visitor center, the large complex where all victors are housed when visiting the Capitol. Tired and in desperate need of a shower, it honestly took you a moment to place his face, which probably wasn’t helped by the nasty black eye he was sporting. Once you realized who it was, you’d stood there a bit awkwardly, not quite sure what to say or do. But for some reason, your hand seemed to decide on its own to reach up and touch his face, right under his swollen and bloodshot eye. You guessed it was the result of a punch, not a kick, since none of the facial structure around it appeared to be damaged.

“It’s nothing,” he said, even as he winced. “They’ll fix me up in a jiffy before they send me home.”

“Wouldn’t want anyone to think that the good citizens of the Capitol would ever mistreat a simple boy from the districts, huh?”

“Something like that,” he said, and because you were still touching his face like an idiot, he lifted his hand and took yours, hesitating a moment before pressing a small kiss to your wrist. You tensed up, suddenly remembering every single part of your body that someone else’s lips had invaded that night, the marks they left invisible and impossible to remove, like grease stains under your skin. For some reason, you didn’t want him close to that filth, didn’t want him to accidentally touch what had already been spoiled by some vulture’s greedy clutches. You were about to pull your hand back and quite possibly tell him to fuck off, when you looked up to see him watching you with compassion, with understanding, with eyes that said he knew far too well what you were experiencing. You shut your mouth, and he lowered your hand, wrapping his around it in a secure grip.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could really do with a shower.”

So he took you back to his room, and you couldn’t bring yourself to protest or even explain to yourself why you were suddenly too tired to speak or do anything except follow him. He let you have the shower first, and when you came out he had acquired an ice pack and was holding it gingerly to his eye, grimacing faintly in pain. He smiled at you and got up to take his turn in the shower, and you sat down to wait for him, your skin still feeling strangely incomplete and exposed without the familiar web of scars to cover it. As if you were a small child again – but even then you don’t recall not having any scars at all. The red tracks of nails stood out against your pale chest, but at least you’d managed to scrub away the lipstick stains.

You didn’t touch each other that night, other than to lay down and sleep side by side, but before you had to head to the train in the morning his hands and mouth seemed to somehow erase the previous night from your skin as easily as the Capitol had wiped the scars from it. You weren’t sure if you could offer the same to him, but at least you were less awkward and inexperienced this time around. After that, every encounter would if at all possible end up in his or your room, and since you’re both victors, that also means you have the fairly unique privilege in the districts of actually owning phones. So he had called you, and you had called him, and though it was awkward at first to talk without seeing each other, touching each other, you’d come to appreciate the opportunity to stay in touch. You’d kept your conversations light and nonthreatening, knowing full well that the phone lines must be tapped, but if you were to be honest, the most important part was simply getting to hear his voice.

It’s foolish, of course you know that, but as he takes your arm and apologizes charmingly to Dave for stealing you away, pulling you toward the dance floor… some of the tension in your chest just straight up melts away. The sheer impossibility of what you find yourself wishing for irks you, because you should know better than that, but you suppose there are actually some things which you were never trained to defend against. Jake’s stupid infectious grin and unreasonably skilled hands being two of them.

You have a patron scheduled for this evening right after the party, so it’s unlikely that the two of you will be able to get any time in private before then, but at least this moment is yours. Your familiarity with each other will of course instantly spread like wildfire through the Capitol rumor mill, and you can’t find yourself giving even the most humble of fucks. So let them think that you’re yet another in Jake’s long string of lovers, that he’d managed to seduce you too – it’s not even necessarily untrue. But from the delighted way he smiles at you as he pulls you close and waits in the lull for the next piece of music to start, you know that you mean more than that to him. And whatever he is to you, which you’re not going to speculate on too deeply, you know for certain that you thrive on outshining everyone else in his eyes. If that’s as unwise as your instincts tell you, which is very probable, then you will allow yourself to embrace stupidity for a little while. It’s worth it.

* * *

You rub the towel against your hair, chasing any excess moisture still clinging to the tight curls, and then hang it on the warmed rack next to the shower. Scooping some of your conditioning oil out of its pale green jar, you walk into your bedroom while still gently rubbing it into your hair, enjoying the fresh herbal smell. There are few beauty products in the Capitol that aren’t intensely processed and overpoweringly perfumed, but your preference is often for simpler substances. Seeing that your guest isn’t here yet, you sit down on the side of your bed, wiping your fingers absently against your bathrobe before picking up a book and starting to read. One of the Avoxes will show him to you once he arrives, and you heartily dislike being idle.

Dirk Strider arrives so quietly, however, that you do not hear him until he clears his throat in the doorway. You look up, taking in his wary posture and blank expression, and make a very poor attempt to hide your smile behind your hand. He has already gained a bit of a reputation for not being terribly… enthusiastic when entertaining ladies, even for someone who is known for his aloof mannerisms. He certainly doesn’t look thrilled to be here, but then again, you cannot imagine that you would be in his position either, regardless of your preferences.

“So, do you want to just admire me where I stand or should I start getting naked?” he inquires. “I realize these things are a matter of preference, and I’m not trying to rush you, but if it’s the former then I can strike a pose if you like. Or if it’s the latter, do you want me naked fast or elegantly? Because let me tell you, doing both isn’t gonna be easy in these pants. I’m 99% sure my stylist greased my legs when I wasn’t looking, just to get me into them.”

You allow yourself a small laugh, waving your hand at him a bit dismissively as you put down your book. “Do keep your pants on, Mr Strider. This conversation will not in any way be facilitated by your nakedness – in fact, I’d go so far as to suggest that it would make it needlessly awkward. Besides, even if you weren’t scarcely more than a child, you have absolutely nothing I wish to see, and I believe the feeling is entirely mutual.”

As he tilts his head, quietly studying you as if he’s trying to judge if you’re serious, you notice that something appears to be caught in his hair. “Did you know you have a purple petal just here?” You point at your own hair, just next to your temple. His expression changes ever so slightly, and just for a moment you could swear that he almost looks embarrassed. Then he lifts his hand and frees the errant thing, for some reason putting it in the chest pocket of his shirt.

“Apart from aiding me with my personal grooming practices, what else was it you wanted to talk about? You can’t just leave a man hanging like that.”

You almost make a joke about how you’re a Gamemaker, it’s not outside the realm of what you might do, but you remind yourself that it’s in poor taste. The persona you’ve created for yourself to maintain your safety is a good one, but sometimes you find yourself just a bit too comfortable with such vulgar comments as a result. Instead you gesture pleasantly towards the small table and two chairs right outside the glass door to the balcony, getting to your feet in one fluid movement. “Come along and have a seat, why don’t you? I’m sorry that I won’t be getting more dressed than this, but I would like to maintain the illusion of this being a more intimate meeting than it actually is – paranoia is a useful trait in the Capitol, alas.”

He shrugs. “It’s not up to me if you choose to freeze your nipples right off, if that’s what your heart desires,” he says, which would register as a more impertinent remark if he didn’t studiously avert his gaze from the way your robe gaps as you slide the door open.

“The balcony air is warmed to whatever temperature I choose. Just another of many pointless little luxuries here in the Capitol – and one that admittedly somewhat defeats the purpose of having a balcony, don’t you think?” You sit down on the cushioned seat, reaching behind you to pull a prepared decanter of wine from the chilled drinks cabinet. There are glasses and a bowl of fruit already set out on the table. You fill your own glass, and then raise your eyebrows slightly at the young man, who instantly shakes his head. You nod in agreement with this seemingly wise decision, and instead fish out a bottle of sparkling water for him. He gives you a wary look, but then shrugs and opens it, presumably reasoning that if you wanted to drug him you wouldn’t actually have to trick him into it; after all, you’ve paid for the night and this means he’s free for you to do with as you please, as long as you don’t permanently damage him.

The barbarism of your home really ought to lose its shock value at some point, but somehow you still find yourself appalled. Then again, that’s probably a good thing.

“Well,” you say, “at this point in the conversation, I don’t suppose it serves any real purpose to remain so coy, as much as I enjoy it.” You have a sip of wine, and then lean forward, propping your chin against your laced-together fingers. “My name is Rose Lalonde, and I’m a Gamemaker. And while I couldn’t hope to aspire to your level of hatred towards the Capitol, you could nonetheless consider it our common enemy; I certainly rather like the sound of that, it sounds so convivial.”

He has grown very still, which is hardly surprising. Paranoia might be a good tactic toward survival in the Capitol, but as a Gamemaker you are also intimately familiar with how essential it can prove to be in an arena. “Those certainly are some dangerous fucking words.”

“They are,” you concur with an agreeable little smile, “and I understand that you have no reason to trust me just yet. Which is why I suggest that a majority of the talking done tonight should be accomplished by me.”

“Aren’t we lucky that you seem to enjoy it so much,” he says dryly, the statement too flat to even be a rhetorical question. You laugh and ignore it.

“There is an ever-increasing number of us who would very much like to find an alternative to our current system of government, such as it is. We all have our own reasons, some more straightforward than others, but whatever they are, we are now united by this cause and have been working toward it for many years.”

“And what makes you think I have such sympathies?” he asks evenly. “Whether it’s true or not, that’s not exactly an impression I want to give just anyone.”

“I’m not just anyone,” you point out. “And there are three reasons. The first is that you’re quite frankly very intelligent, which helps. No one needs to explain to you what the real source of your grievances is. The second is that I’m really good at what I do, which involves finding people who might be persuaded to join the cause, both based on their personality and their circumstances. And thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I have a source who has informed me that both you and your brother are a suitable candidates. I felt these three factors were reason enough to contact you, and an associate of mine is relaying the same information to your brother as we speak.”

He looks like he’s about to ask something, but then thinks better of it. You smile. “No, my source is not Jake English, although he does work for us as well.”

Now his eyes narrow. “If I turn out not to be a suitable candidate, as you put it, you have now not only given me your name, but his as well.”

“But even if you were to inform on me, you have not even the slightest inclination to throw him to the wolves as well,” you point out reasonably. “Considering the nature of your relationship, that would be unwise, would it not?” He says nothing, his mouth narrow and tense. “I don’t intend to tell you who my informant is,” you continue, “because _that_ would indeed count as a preposterous indiscretion. But I have no reason to distrust this person in this matter.” You do not add that on the other hand, you’re not sure that you would trust your informant with a bucket of water if your hair was on fire, because that’s neither here nor there. Just because he’s crazy doesn’t mean he’s not right about this.

“So what do you want me to do?” Dirk Strider asks, still keeping his voice carefully neutral. He’s sensible enough not to give away his intentions this early in the game, and you appreciate that greatly.

“For now, nothing,” you reply. “I’d ask you to keep your eyes and ears open, but I know that you are already doing your utmost in that regard, and you don’t strike me as the sort to take well to micromanaging. It’s an ugly Gamemaker habit anyway, and I’m trying to quit it.” He just raises his eyebrows slightly, and you make a slightly apologetic grimace, but move on quickly. “I don’t wish to deceive you: While there are indeed more of us than even our good President might suspect – and that man is a survivor for a reason – that is still far from enough for us to make a move at present. The districts are cowed and leaderless, they mistrust each other and, of course, the Capitol, which currently leaves us with poor prospects in the event of an uprising. Divided, they will fall quite easily, and just as in the Dark Days the Capitol will once again reinforce its rule.”

“And you think you can change this?”

“Not yet,” you admit. “But there are plans in motion.” You level a curious look at him. “If you wanted to unite the districts, what do you think would be the best way of doing that?”

He steeples his fingers in front of his face, his gaze intense behind the dark glass shielding his eyes. “Speaking hypothetically... I would strike at the Games.”

You nod, pleased. “Exactly. It is the ultimate symbol of how sundered and helpless the citizens of Panem are within the districts, and such powerful symbols are also by their very nature incredibly fragile. Which is what I am for, of course. Regrettably, that will have to wait until I become Head Gamemaker, which will most likely take a while.”

“And supposing that you achieved this goal, what then?” he demands. “Say you’ve managed to shatter the seemingly impenetrable iconography that the Games represent, unite the Districts, presumably by providing them with some other emblem or idea to follow, most likely a person who embodies the cause to them, a martyr… what would be your next move? You seem certain that this would turn the tides, but the great multitude out there which you choose to rely on are still unarmed and starved and disorganized. Unless all you require of them is to be cannon fodder, which I would suggest is a stupid as fuck long-term strategy, you’d need someone to supply them with weapons, resources, and actual leadership.” He leans forward, and you catch a glimpse of those fascinating amber eyes, sharp and cool, with you as their sole focus. He’s so young still, a scrawny boy fleeing nightmares and courting impossible love at the heart of tragedy, but it’s easy to forget when you look at him now.

He’s going to be very, very useful.

“Ah,” you say, reaching for your wine with studied nonchalance and taking a long, luxuriant sip. Just to tease him, you grab a grape from the fruit bowl and eat it before finally answering him. “I guess it’s time to tell you about District Thirteen.”

* * *

“Here dear, eat something before you leave. You could certainly use some more meat on your bones.”

Well, this wasn’t how you’d expected the night to go, you have to admit. But food is food, so you shrug and sit down opposite you patron for the night, although all you’d done was talk before she showed you where you could sleep. That’s a first, and definitely a relief, dangerous talk about revolution notwithstanding. Not that she’s not pretty, but that… really doesn’t matter all that much. Sure it helps if they’re not literally halfway into their graves or haven’t modified their bodies so grotesquely that they barely look human anymore, but when the baseline is that you don’t want to be there in the first place, and it’s only a matter of how bearable an already humiliating situation might be, that’s still a feeble comfort.

There’s something about her, though, that nags at you. You try to figure it out as you fill a bowl with grain and mildly spiced fish stew, watching the jewels on her nails flash as she pours herself a glass of orange juice. You’d guess she’s in her early thirties, short and curvaceous, with a very well put together air about her. She has clearly paid a fair bit of attention to her looks, but not so much as to pass into repellency. You suppose that in the Capitol, that sort of thing is practically a requirement, and you know from their gossip that they are quick to judge anyone who doesn’t ‘fix’ whatever they consider in need of fixing, or at least adorn themselves somehow. It sounds like an exhausting and completely fucking nonsensical existence.

She looks up at you, smiles a bit awkwardly, and you’re taken aback by her eyes. Bright blue and turned up at the-

“Holy shit, that’s it,” you say, dropping your spoon. “That’s who you reminded me of.”

She looks bewildered, her gaze following your spoon and then snapping back to your face, a small frown causing her eyebrows to crease slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand. I remind you of whom, exactly?”

“John,” you blurt out, before realizing that maybe that’s a really goddamn terrible idea.

Her eyes grow wide, she reaches across the table to grab your hand, and there is a surprising amount of strength in fingers so devoid of calluses and scars. “You saw John? When? Tell me, how is he?”

Well, too late to pretend that you were mistaken now. “It was a while ago, sorry. It was before my Games. He was serving us in the Tribute Center.”

“Then they kept their promise.” Her hand trembles, and the anger on her face follows the same lines as the grief. “Small favors, I suppose. And he was- he was well?”

“Yeah. I mean, bearing in mind the circumstances, he actually seemed pretty cheerful.”

“That’s… just like him.” She finally lets go of your hand to grope around in her pocket until she finds a handkerchief, pressing it carefully under her eyes so as not to smudge her make-up. “He’s always been so- so strong. Strong and kind.”

“Yeah, uh, he- he gave me these.” You tap your shades gently. “I don’t know where he got them from, but I’d broken mine and I was, you know, not happy about that. So he went and got these for me to cheer me up.”

She smiles then, even as she seems to give up on her mascara and just lets the tears overflow, dabbing gently at her nose. “Of course he did. I’ve never seen those before, but it’s just the sort of thing he would think to do. He’s a very caring boy.” She sighs, wiping a faint black trail off her left cheek. “A little bit too caring for his own good, alas.”

“Well shit. That’s how he-?”

“Yes,” she says firmly, cutting your question short, and you suppose you can’t blame her. What were you going to say anyway? ‘That’s how he got his tongue torn out?’ is a little insensitive, you’ve got to admit, no matter how you phrase it.

“He’s a relative of yours?” you ask instead. Jane's expression changes slightly, as if some part of her slams shut, but she still nods.

“My cousin, yes. He’s quite a bit younger than me, and I used to look after him a lot as a child.” She sighs, looking down at her own breakfast as if suddenly uncertain what to do with it. You remember about yours again, and take a spoonful before asking your next question.

“They don’t let you see him?”

“No.” She shakes her head, her hands curling into fist. “He’s not allowed to see his family, we hear almost nothing about him, we’re not even supposed to talk about him. It’s so cruel. All we could do was to try to pay for him to get out from where they imprisoned him first, but it took… years. Years of knowing he was suffering underground, never allowed to see sunlight at all.”

There’s an uncharitable part of you that can’t help but feel it’s only fair, that at least some Capitol families know what it’s like to be able to do nothing for those they love, those who have been mercilessly taken away. They all live by the suffering of the districts citizens, so shouldn’t they at least feel a little of the cruelty of their masters? But no matter how hard you try, you cannot bring yourself to think that John deserved what was done to him. No one does.

Jane is watching your face carefully, and she manages a small smile. “I quite understand if it’s hard to feel sympathy for my family. It’s no worse than what people in the districts struggle with daily, and I won’t say that some members of my family aren’t… rather dreadful people. But John- John was only fourteen when it happened. He was just a child, and his only crime was not being able to ignore the suffering of those who had it worse.”

“There’s that,” you say with a small shrug, “and honestly I’m not on board with anyone doing that kind of shit to people. I think I’d be pretty fucked up if I saw the stuff they put my people through and then said, hey, you know what would be sweet? More of that, as long as it happens to different people.” You grimace. “Not that I’d feel too bad if the people responsible for all this get to feel what it’s like for a change. I’m not that magnanimous, not by a long shot.”

“Well,” Jane says grimly, sprinkling some salt on her food, “I think it’s safe to say that whatever happens, once the revolution comes to pass, it won’t be bloodless.” She brushes the excess salt off her fingers with brisk movements. “So I’m certain there’ll be a time to make some of those monsters pay. In fact, I intend to make sure of it.” Then she takes a deep breath, offering you a radiant smile. “Would you like some tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STRUGGLED but i got here. building up the plot is a bit trickier than just writing shit going down, but here we are. and now... onto shit going down, probably :P


	9. Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The odds are never in your favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, this was VERY fast, but hyperfocus is one hell of a drug. only one perspective shift here, and it should be super obvious.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and today is the day of the reaping. As you move around your family’s small cottage, cleaning every surface just to have something to do with your hands, Nepeta is practically hanging off you, her little hands constantly clutching at your shirt. That doesn’t make cleaning any easier, naturally, but you haven’t the heart to properly tell her off. You just grumble under your breath about it, while taking care not to elbow her in the face as you scrub.

Your little sister is only nine years old, not old enough for her name to go into the reaping, and you refuse to acknowledge that there will be a day when that’s no longer the case. Your mind is such a frayed and precarious thing already today, and even thinking about all the horrors you have no power to protect her from might cause something to tear. Seeking any scrap of comfort, you remind yourself that at the very least, you will make absolutely sure that she never has to sign up for tesserae, not even once. But even as you try to hold on to that thought, a treacherous little voice reminds you that it’s harder said than done; your parents had probably made the same promise about you when you were smaller, and you’re sure they’d really believed it too.

With your mother hunting illegally back then, keeping your larder decently full hadn’t been quite as impossible as for other Seam families, and your father would trade his poultices and skills with those who had a bit more to give but still would prefer not to pay a doctor. But when a mine explosion took your mother’s hearing, it was no longer safe for her to venture far into the forest, where a hunter’s life could depend on hearing the predators coming. She and you can still forage a bit, provided you stay close to the fence; then you can be her ears and you can run swiftly to safety. But to reliably take down game, that just isn’t enough. You wish you could do it for her, but she had never been able to teach you as a child, because you’d wept like a stupid baby every time she made a kill. Now it’s too late. And of course the bastards pay her less in the mines nowadays as well.

“It’s just five times when you’re sixteen, right?” Nepeta asks, for what you estimate to be at least the third time today.

“Fuck’s sake, Nep, I’ve already said it is,” you say curtly, and it’s still a lie. It’s twenty-two. Five times for every time you’ve been entered normally, five times each for tessarae for you, Nepeta and your mother over as many years, two times for your father on particularly bad winters.

“And there’s so many other kids too,” she says.

Yes. Other kids you’re supposed to hope will be drawn instead. Other kids, who don’t deserve to die any more than you do. But you can’t say that to your little sister, who is just scared that her big brother will go away forever. You bite down on your lip until you can taste blood, working the potash soap into a lather as you try in vain to remove another layer of the ground-in coal dust that haunts every part of your home, that haunts your skin and your nails, haunts the lungs of the old women and men who come to your father for anything that might soothe the relentless coughing.

A gentle hand on your shoulder makes your hands grow still, and you look around with a growing pit opening somewhere between your chest and stomach, to find your father smiling sadly at you. “That’s enough. You need get washed and dressed.” He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, and the pit seems to suck the breath right from your lips, making it impossible to speak. So you just nod and go to the tin tub waiting in front of the fire. You could kick up a fuss about it, like you’d done when you were younger, refusing to get yourself prettied up for slaughter. But bitterly you’ve had to acknowledge that it does nothing except make things harder for your parents, with the added bonus of making Nepeta upset. So you push your selfish wish to bitch about it into the pit as well, swallow yourself whole and face your dread. It’s not going anywhere, after all.

When you’re dressed in a reasonably white shirt and a pair of your father’s old pants, shiny with age, the four of you dine together. Meals at your house are always silent, of course, because you do all your talking with your hands, but today it’s not like that. When you’re not using them to eat with, your hands are clenched in your lap. Once you’ve finished, you can’t even bring yourself to remember what you just ate, because it all tasted like sawdust. It’s time to go.

Your aunt Porrim is waiting for you outside, enveloping you all in brief hugs, though you notice that she holds onto you a moment longer. Her wife was killed in the same explosion that left your mother deaf, and now you’re all the family she has. She’s always helped your family with anything she can spare, which is precious little since she’s as much Seam as the rest of you, and the loss had made her sick with grief for many years.

Your family joins the desultory stream of people heading to the square, everyone’s eyes fixed ahead, especially not looking at any family with children the right age. That almost goes double if you belong to such a family yourself; no one wants to acknowledge that they’re hoping someone else’s child, sister or brother will die instead of their own. Nepeta’s hand clenches yours as tightly as her stubby little fingers can manage, and you pat her head gently, careful not to jostle the hat your father knitted for her. Though it’s full summer, she stubbornly refuses to take it off, and removing it even for long enough to wash her hair can sometimes be a struggle. Not on reaping day, though. Today your singing, chattering, pouncing, loudly playing sister is subdued. Today she holds on to you, and her olive green eyes are wide with fear.

As you reach the square, you have to pull your hand out of hers, and the helpless little sound she makes almost breaks your heart. But you have to go into the fenced-in area, and for now at least that is a place she cannot go.

Your mother taps you on your shoulder. “Chin up,” she signs, and then gives you a tight hug. You raise your chin and try very hard not to cry.

Gamzee is waiting for you with the rest of the people your age, reaching out one of his long-ass arms and smothering you in a hug that smells like freshly baked bread and spices. You struggle feebly, slapping at his limbs, pulling at one of his locs, and butting your head hard against his chest for good measure. You might as well be hitting a bag of dough. He just laughs in that warm, sleepy voice of his. “Easy there, my neurotic fucking friend. Someone as motherfucking tiny as you should try to be more chill and pick less fights, like I’ve always told you.”

You glare up at him, because it’s not like you don’t know that he’s big and strong enough to pick you up and throw you if he really wanted to, all that hauling sacks of flour around has given him arms as thick as your legs. But how could you be afraid of the great big idiot? He’s the kindest, most easygoing soul you know, and that’s saying something considering what your family is like. Maybe when you were younger you found him intimidating, but back then it had nothing to do with his size, because even being the baker’s son only does so much when you’re eleven. That was back when he was still troubled, saying he could hear voices telling him to do bad things, causing him to have violent outbursts of what most people thought was anger, but your father had said it was fear. His family are all assholes who don’t care much about him, and even though they have money enough to take him to a proper doctor, they never have. Apparently they don’t think he’s worth it. So your father had to make do with what he had, to try to make medicines that would make him feel better, and you’d become friends with him during his frequent visits. Gradually, he’d calmed down, and the voices seem to have gone away. But that doesn’t mean you’re not still fucking furious with his family.

You bicker tersely with him for a little while, but go quiet as the square fills up more and more, the crowds growing thicker and the atmosphere so oppressive that you feel like you’re struggling to breathe. You gaze up at the podium, at the three empty chairs and the two glass balls full of paper scraps, and you wish you could just knock them both over and scatter the names to the wind. What are the odds that the twenty-two entries with your name on them are all on the bottom somewhere? There are so many names, it shouldn’t be impossible. Gamzee has only five entries, so that shouldn’t be too bad. But if it’s not you or him, it’s someone else, maybe even someone standing right next to you. Or even worse, someone standing much further toward the back, a terrified thirteen- or twelve-year-old who knows full well that no one their age has ever made it back alive.

The equation curls itself into a heated, heavy knot in your chest. There’s no right answer. All you can do is endure, and you hate it.

The mayor of your district takes his seat, followed by Twelve’s escort, Feferi Peixes, a tall golden-skinned woman made taller by how her mass of glossy black hair is piled on top of her head. She’s wearing an eye-searing magenta dress and her most disconcertingly cheerful smile. It somehow genuinely doesn’t seem to bother her that the district she’s assigned to must be a complete dead end, career-wise, and that her permanent enthusiasm is never met with anything except uneasy silence. Maybe she enjoys it in some twisted way, or maybe she’s just as daft as a brush.

The last chair, reserved for Twelve’s one victor, remains empty. You’re not surprised. Coming and going as she pleases is one of her main character traits. Always being slightly inebriated is another. You’re pretty sure she doesn’t give a damn about the tributes she’s forced to mentor every year, seeing as how there’s no other candidate.

You shift impatiently where you stand and stare up at the sky as the mayor repeats the same old speech that you’ve heard once every year your entire life, the story of your country, of the uprising, the defeat, and the Treaty of Treason. One of the clouds is shaped kind of like a goat. You hope someone fed Maplehoof before you left, because you forgot all about it this morning. When you look back, you realize your one victor has appeared on the stage to scattered applause. She sits down, crossing her long legs in front of her, tilts her wide-brimmed hat forward, and appears to go to sleep. Fantastic. Whoever the tributes are going to be, they’re sure to be in excellent hands.

Feferi hops forward on her precariously tall, glittering shoes. “Happy Hunger Games!” she chirps in her strange Capitol accent, beaming at the wary crowd as if she has never seen something so inspiring. “And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!” She has tiny pastel colored objects pinned to her hair. You squint your eyes a bit as she goes on about how delighted she is to be here yet again. Looks like fish. “Ladies first!”

The crowds, already muted and cowed, go completely silent. You all watch as she makes her way toward the first glass ball, digs her hand into the mass of paper, and then pulls one slip out. Back to the microphone she goes, her heels click-clacking loudly in the silence. She smooths the paper out, clears her throat, and reads the name.

“Latula Pyrope.”

_ No. _

You swallow hard, feeling the bite of gall at the back of your throat. Not her little sister. No. This is her first year, at most she should have two entries... it’s not fair. Except it’s never fair, is it? Your gaze seeks out her big sister, standing only a few feet away from you. She has gone paper pale, clutching her cane to her chest, her knuckles going white. You wish you could say something to her, anything, but what use would the words of a boy who has never even dared talk to her before be? If there are any words that help now, you don’t know them. As her little sister walks down the path cleared for her, hesitant footsteps in an ocean of silence, she turns her head in her direction. You can see the tears in the little girl’s eyes, but she’s not letting them fall, not making a sound, trying to keep her sister from knowing how frightened she is. Trying to be brave.

Then something suddenly hits you squarely in the chest, stinging sharply, and you stumble backwards just in time for Terezi Pyrope’s cane to hit you again, this time on the arm. “Get out of my way,” she hisses to the people around her, and they hastily obey as she stumbles forward toward where her sister is. Latula stops, letting out a gasp as she sees Terezi, but before she can say anything her sister grabs for her and then shoves her back in the direction she came from. Then she turns around, her back ramrod straight, and the grin she offers the silent spectators is so wide that it looks deranged.

“I volunteer as a tribute.”

You’d thought the crowd was quiet before, but it’s nothing compared to the compact, shocked silence that spreads over it now. By comparison, the scrape and tap of Terezi’s cane across the tiled ground sounds almost deafening.

“Well done you!” says Feferi Peixes, actually looking taken aback. “Ah, can we get someone to maybe help her onto the stage and- oh dear.”

Latula has finally shaken the shock and gotten to her feet, and now she lets out a broken, “Terezi, no, _no_!” starting to run toward the stage. Someone steps out and catches her, picking her up even as she fights like a wildcat, swears and screams, trying to get free. Other kids close around her protectively, trying to calm her down, and her sister keeps walking without even a moment’s hesitation. One of the Peacekeepers step forward and awkwardly guides her up the stairs onto the podium, up to where Feferi Peixes holds out a hand and practically pulls her forwards.

“Well, aren’t you a brave and spirited girl!” she says, grabbing the microphone so she can hold it out to her mouth. “What’s your name?”

“Terezi Pyrope,” she says, and it’s the same bold, slightly amused voice as always. You’ve heard that voice answer questions in the classroom, shout down bullies, cackle loudly at her own jokes. You’ve watched that slightly strange smile from across the classroom, wondering what she’s thinking. You’ve opened your mouth again and again, prepared to finally talk to her, but every time the words have piled up in your throat and at most turned into an awkward grunt. The longest interaction you’ve ever had with her was when you gave her the bag of food when you were six, and you’re pretty certain she has no idea that was you.

And now she’s going to die. You’ll never get to tell her. You don’t even know exactly what it is you’d like to tell her.

“So that was your little sister? What a lovely girl… but now is your turn in the spotlight. Come on, everyone, let’s give our female tribute a big hand!”

No one applauds. No one so much as acknowledges the request, as you all stand silent and watch the blind girl on the podium, feeling your quiet protest reverberating in your very bones. In face of the monstrous, of the incomprehensible, silence is the only resistance you can muster, but it’s better than nothing. You look back at where your family is standing, and see that your aunt is holding the youngest Pyrope girl in her arms now, rocking her gently back and forth. Your father meets your gaze steadily, then he brings the three middle fingers of his left hand to his lips and holds it into the air. Your mother, always watching his hands, is only a beat behind him. You swallow down any impending tears, and then repeat the gesture. Next to you, Gamzee follows suit. And suddenly, like magic, the whole crowd around you is doing it. You’re not sure if it’s an empty gesture or not, after all Terezi Pyrope can’t actually see it, can only guess at why Feferi lets out a confused little giggle, and behind her the supposedly sleeping victor suddenly draws in her legs with a loud scraping noise and sits up straight. But somehow it still feels important. Maybe her sister will tell her about it.

“Alright, alright!” Feferi Peixes claps her hands together, the bangles on her wrists jangling. “So much excitement already, and we haven’t even gotten to the boy tribute. Let’s amend that, shall we?”

In the middle of your horror over Latula’s name being drawn, Terezi volunteering, you’d almost forgotten about your own fear. It comes rushing back, mounting as you watch the escort walk back across the stage with a piece of paper in her hands, threatening to choke you as she holds it up and squints at it in the bright glare of the sun.

And when she reads your name, you feel… nothing.

You look around, watching the people surrounding you slowly drawing back, pity in their eyes. You look up at Gamzee, watching you with sudden concern on his big, kind features, his mouth just starting to open. You see the conflict in his eyes, and you shake your head quickly, your body taking over since your thoughts currently move so slowly, like people making their way through unfamiliar wilderness. No, says a voice somewhere at the back of your mind. No, he can’t go in there without his medicine. No. You don’t want to die, fuck, _you don’t want to die,_ but you’re not watching someone else die for you either. “Look after my family,” you whisper hoarsely, grasping Gamzee’s hand tightly. “Look after the Pyrope girl too. Fucking promise me you will.”

You wait for him to nod before you turn away, walking numbly toward the podium. You know without looking that Nepeta is being held back just like Latula had been, but there’s no danger of her trying to take your place. You know that your parents are weeping, probably Porrim too. You know that they’re already grieving.

You know you’re already dead.

* * *

You sit on a soft couch in the room where they’d left you, holding your little sister in your arms. You’d held on as she’d wailed and punched you with her little fists, just stroking her hair until the fight went out of her, and you hold on now as she sobs brokenly against your chest. “What am I going to do? I can’t be all alone, Terezi, I _can’t._ Please don’t go!”

You have nothing you can tell her. She knows that you have to go, that you can’t stay even though you want to. And any words of comfort would fall flat and useless, because you know it’s true. Without you, she’s all alone. Of course the people of the Hob will look after her, and she has plenty of friends at school, but that’s not what she means. She means at home, with the other kids at the community home, and your caretakers with their sharp voices and hard hands. There’s no one there who cares for her. No one who loves her. Without you, she’s going to have to do it on her own, and though you’re walking into certain death, you still fear for her. You fear what will happen to your brave, clever, helplessly insecure little sister. You fear that evil place will grind her into the coal dust until nothing is left.

You brush her hair away from her face, gently push her away so she can look at you, and lift your hands to her face so that you can do the same. You take in her wet cheeks, the puffy skin around her eyes, her trembling jaw, the way her throat keeps contracting over and over again. “Listen to me. You’re smart, you’re going to survive. Don’t sign up for terrerae unless you really, really need it. Keep away from the worst trouble makers at home, just run if someone tries to start something, that way they can’t take anything from you. Go down to the Hob as often as you can, show them that you’re a good worker, that you can be depended upon. They’ll look after you.” You hesitate, then add: “See if the Vantas family wants to share anything with you, sometimes there’s a bit of solidarity between the tribute families, and his father has always been a soft touch. See if you can use that. You got that?”

She nods, knowing you can feel the jerking motions through your fingers, not quite able to form any words now. She just leans in once more and clings to you until your time is up. She doesn’t fight the Peacekeeper who comes to get her, but you hear her turn around in the door. “I love you,” she whispers, her voice as frail as an autumn leaf.

“I love you too,” you reply, and try to remember the last time you’d said words so vulnerable, so honest. But it’s for her, and it’s important that she knows, that she will remember.

“Try to win,” she says, although both of you know it’s impossible.

“I will,” you promise. Because how could you not try, for her?

You don’t expect anyone else, but a few minutes later you hear the door opening, and lift your face from where you’d buried it in the fuzzy pillows of the sofa. “Who’s there?” you demand sharply, not liking this intrusion into your grief.

“Porrim Vantas,” a warm, deep voice responds. That takes you aback. You’ve never actually talked to this woman, other than to say hello in passing at the Hob, where she goes sometimes on unknown errands. But she’s here, sitting down next to you on the sofa, although she keeps a respectful distance.

“Why?” you demand. “Your nephew is in the next room, shouldn’t you be seeing him?”

“I have already done so,” she replies, and you can feel a faint tremor in the upholstery of the couch, presumably a shrug. “But I wanted to see you as well.”

“Why?” you repeat.

“Because I have something for you,” she replies cryptically. She sighs, a forlorn little sound from someone as old as her, and her voice is more hesitant when she speaks again. “I never told you this, but I used to know your mother. I- I guess I never knew how to bring it up.”

Of all the things you were expecting today, after everything that’s happened, this reawakening of the ghost of your mother still somehow hits you like a punch to the gut. You don’t need this, you think as your head spins. Why would she come here and talk about her, doesn’t she understand that it won’t help?

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, as if she can tell what you’re thinking. “I don’t mean to make this harder for you. But I- she gave me something once, a token of our… friendship.” There’s a slight hesitation there that hints at something more, but you’re not in any shape to inquire about it, and you’re not even certain you want to know. “It was something very dear to me, and even as we drifted apart later, she refused to take it back. She said it was a gift. But… she’s dead now, and I would like you to have it. I would like you to take it with you.”

You don’t resist as she bends forwards, pinning something to the front of your shirt. As you reach up to examine it, you feel a delicate metal circle with something spanning the middle, a small shape of… “A bird?” you ask, your voice sounding strained.

“Yes. A mockingjay in flight. She used to… really love those birds.”

You remember. She would take you to the meadow, down by the fence, and then she would sit you down on the soft, sweet-smelling grass and sing at them. She called it the bird concerto, and it was the single most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.

You can hear in her voice that Porrim is struggling with her emotions, maybe even holding back tears, and you don’t know what to do with that. She has opened memories that you thought were locked away and safe, let them spill out here into this dusty room full of too many goodbyes, but for some strange reason you cannot hate her for it. It’s as if your mother is here too, as if you’re bidding farewell to her again, and somehow that seems right. “I wish I had stepped up to take you in, back when you lost your father,” she whispers. “But I- I lost my wife, I was beside myself with grief, and I suppose I couldn’t think straight.”

“You had to look after your own family,” you say brusquely. “They had their own troubles back then, right? How would you have taken care of me and Latula too, on top of all that? You don’t owe us anything.”

“Perhaps not.” Suddenly you feel her hand stroking your cheek, and you almost fall out of the couch from the shock of it. She chuckles. “She was very much like you. Wild and hard to get close to. She didn’t allow herself to soften very often, and she was careful about who she would let into her life.” A small sigh, this one like a wind brushing through long abandoned rooms. “But she could believe things so strongly, it was almost like the liquor she made. It burned, and it left your head spinning.”

Definitely not just friends, then. You’re not surprised at all, although it’s strange to think of your mother having a life before your family, loving someone before she loved your father. “You mean she was smart enough not to trust just anyone? That sounds about right.”

“Smart, yes… and very foolish too.”

Well, you can’t refute that. Considering the way she died, picking a fight that she couldn’t possibly hope to win, making your family a pariah in the entire district? You can never decide if you hate her more than you miss her, and it’s a complicated feeling, one you’re not going to share with any stranger, no matter how much your mother meant to her. You turn your face slightly away from her, signaling that it’s time for her to go. She seems to understand.

“Thank you for hearing me out.” She gives your cheek another gentle pat, and then gets to her feet. “Will you wear the token?”

“I will wear it,” you reply. It’s not like you have anything else to bring, and somehow it seems right. You’ll take a piece of her with you, and maybe also a spark of her fire.

“Then goodbye, Terezi,” Porrim says, and leaves you.

You’re finally alone, and if you’d have it your way, you’d stay that way as you count down your days. But outside the door are guards, and the guards will take you to the train, and at the train you will have to meet Karkat Vantas again. The boy who saved your sister’s life. Your sister, who you promised that you’d try to win. And for you to win, that means Karkat Vantas will have to die.

If there’s a way of solving this, you certainly haven’t figured it out yet.


	10. Treshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever you expected, it wasn't this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUP. perspective shift in this chapter goes karkat > jake. y'all have already noticed that I don't necessarily keep ppl who are "related" in canon (all these slime relatives yo) as relatives here, and that i'm messing around w family ties for the ones that are, but yeah, i guess i should have mentioned that, maybe? TOO LATE NOW, but there it is.
> 
> also a minor canon deviation is that there usually is more than one mentor for each couple of tributes if there are any available ones, but i just couldn't deal w that bc homestuck's cast is already spread p thin over this story and i didn't feel like inventing a fuckton of OC's. there might be some later, but for now tossing in random minor characters and/or friendsim characters will probably suffice (RIP White Queen, sorry about that).

You walk onto the train as if in a dream, barely listen as you’re shown your chambers and told to do as you wish until supper. Despite how you’d bathed right before the reaping, your clothes are drenched in sweat, either from terror or just from standing around in the sun all that time, you really can’t be certain. So you take them off and take a very brief shower, mostly because the amount of warm water you’re just pouring down the drain kind of stresses you out. Which is stupid, you understand that on a Capitol train they probably don’t have to boil all of it over a fire to make it warm, but you’ve spent too much of your life washing in icy water because warming it would be too much effort, or you just don’t have enough firewood, and now you can’t help feeling like you’re being wasteful.

Also, the soap... It’s nice and gentle, rising instantly into a rich pink lather, but it smells all wrong. As if you’re slowly washing your home off your skin.

You dig through the drawer full of fancy clothes until you find something you can wear without feeling like an idiot, settling on a dark red shirt, a black sweater made from some kind of really soft wool, and a pair of grey slacks. At least that doesn’t look too preposterous. But sitting around in this room and waiting for someone to come get you is making your skin creep, so you decide to just go search for the dining room yourself. The vague sense of motion as you walk down the corridor is disquieting, as if the whole world is rushing past you, or as if you’re constantly in the process of falling. You’ve never even been in a car, let alone anything that moves as quickly as this train.

You hear a voice raised in frustration before you even enter the room. “I don’t know-” A pause. “-how much more of this-” Another pause. “-I can take!” You peek into the room, and see Feferi Peixes holding both her dramatically steep shoes, one in each hand. You presume that the pauses was from when she was wrenching them off her feet.

“Easy there, Fifi. Don’t lose your wig.”

That’s the voice of your mentor. You spot her lounging on the floor, picking strawberries out of a bowl she has presumably relocated there and sipping on something out of a flask. Feferi gives her an impatient glare, then flings the shoes across the room in her general direction. “It’s not – _ugh _– a wig! I just have very nice hair.” She carefully pats the mass of glossy black hair, which looks like it might be starting to come undone from the careful updo.

“What was that noise just now?” a voice behind you asks, sounding delighted. You turn your head to find Terezi standing there, leaning on her cane. She’s wearing- You have no idea what she’s wearing, but it’s hideous. Closer inspection reveals that it involves a bright orange vest, lime green pants, and a tunic patterned in some kind of sickly pale pink and eye-stinging shade of turquoise.

“Our escort threw her shoes at our mentor, but she’s got terrible fucking aim. They hit the wall.” You hesitate, but can’t help yourself. “What the actual bleeding fuck is that you’re wearing?” Ah yes, that’s definitely the first thing you tell a girl when you’ve never spoken to her before, right?

She shrugs. “I just picked the materials that felt nicest – whatever you’re seeing is _your _problem, not mine.” She walks right past you into the dining room, where Feferi Peixes is looking a little bit awkward, to say the least. Clearly you were not meant to have seen that little moment of frustration, and now she’s having trouble collecting herself. Your mentor laughs uproariously and pops another strawberry into her mouth, biting into it with relish. The juice seeps between her bright white teeth as she grins, looking uncomfortably like blood.

“Aight, kids, since you’re both here we can probably tell them to hurry dinner a bit.” She stretches, and then gets to her feet with more grace than you’d expect from someone who is more or less constantly marinated in strong liquor. Standing up straight next to Feferi, and with the latter no longer wearing veritable stilts, you realize she’s not actually that much shorter. Maybe she just looks smaller than your generously featured escort because she has a sort of lanky, wind-worn quality about her, as if she’s made up almost completely of angles. You’ve never seen her up close before, barely seen her at all outside of the reapings, games and victory tours, so in your mind’s eye she’s always on a podium or a screen. Up close like this, you notice this strange discrepancy in her. She must be in her late thirties or early forties at the most, but though there’s no silver in her long braids or notable marks on her dark brown skin, she somehow seems… older. Maybe it’s something about the way she smiles, jagged and dangerous, as if whatever keeps her skinny frame moving is something ancient and hungry.

“Yes, nice to see you both looking so- so lovely!” Feferi’s winces very briefly as her gaze passes over Terezi’s clothes, but she perks back up again, the radiant smile returning as if it was never gone. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just go and see if we can’t at least get the appetizers, alright? I’m sure the three of you have plenty of exciting things to talk about!”

Your mentor grimaces after her, and then drops herself into a chair as if she’s playing pick-a-stick with her long limbs, letting them sprawl in whichever way they land. She waves languidly at the two chairs in front of her, and when you give her a pointed look and a small nod in Terezi’s direction, she seems to get your hint and follows it up with, “Have a seat where I can look at you. That’s opposite me, in case that wasn’t clear.”

You wait until Terezi has made her way to a chair and plonked herself into it before you sit down as well, and this seems to amuse your mentor. “A real gentleman, this one,” she says with an evil little smile. “He’ll remain standing until us ladies are done ‘n’ seated. That’s some proper Capitol manners right there.”

You weigh the likelihood that the Capitol can do anything worse to you than they’re already doing, and decide it’s worth the risk, so you tell her exactly where the Capitol can shove their proper manners, how hard, and what other kinds of bullshit they can accompany it with. This only seems to amuse her further. “Shit, aren’t you a shouty little fucker when you’re not literally scared to death. Not particularly charming, I gotta admit, but kind of funny. I guess I can use that.” She leans forward, tapping her fingers on the table. You notice that the top joints of two of them are missing. “Right, so. Listen up, brats. I’m Meenah, but you already knew that, because I’m the only one alive who’s been savvy enough to beat the Games even though I’m from the absolutely lamest district there is. So that means I’m also the only one around to help _you_ and all the other kids from Twelve in the Games, which is a nice way of saying I get to prepare y’all for what’s most likely inevitable death. In case that wasn’t clear, this gig fucking blows.”

You sit stunned as she talks, fingers twisting into the napkin in front of you. Everything she’s saying is true, you all know it, but since you all do, you don’t feel like there’s really any reason to actually say it. It just seems needlessly cruel. Terezi is impatiently running her finger along the rim of her plate, as if she feels her time is being wasted. Meenah raises one eyebrow, letting out a sharp little sound of amusement. “So, why am I telling you this? Ain’t like you two can help that you’re basically being thrown in there like bait for much, much bigger fish, right?”

“No, and neither can you, I think that’s pretty fucking obvious, so maybe you could do us the minuscule fucking courtesy of not rubbing our imminent brutal deaths right in our fucking faces?” you respond waspishly, crossing your arms. “I know this might be a lot to ask, but do you think maybe we can come to term with how fucking doomed we are without your help?”

Meenah snaps her fingers irritably, silencing you, before she goes back to her tapping. “See, that’s exactly the kind of bullshit loser attitude which I’m not going to tolerate from either of you, is that clear?”

“Excuse me, but weren’t you the person who said_ literally just now_ that our deaths were, and I quote, ‘most likely inevitable’?!” you demand, your voice rising in pitch. “Or did I maybe hallucinate that in my state of reasonable terror due to the fact that I’m about to fucking die?”

She winces, rubbing her forehead with her non-tapping hand. “Fuck, Shouty, it’s simultaneously both too early and too late in the cycle of my day drinking for me to seriously start feeling the effects, so whatever it is that your voice is doing to make me feel way more sober than I am, do you think you could tune it down? I’m sure Blind Girl over there would appreciate it if you didn’t assault her ears as well.”

“I’m pretty used to it,” Terezi says, and you feel heat rising on your cheeks. “He’s in my class at school. He’s always like that.”

“I mean, I’m not saying I’m not kind of enjoying the ornery fuck you attitude, trust me, it’s pretty refreshing compared to the whimpering and flinching I usually have to deal with, but there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

With your hands tucked in your armpits, you slowly curl your fingers into fists, feeling your insides burn with impotent rage. It’s true that you’re too angry right now to actually process how afraid you really are, whatever you might be claiming, but it’s hardly surprising that most of the people who came here before you were scared out of their wits. The whole point is that you’re all just children, and for these twenty-three previous years Twelve hasn’t had one single victor. And the one person to make it out of there alive appears to be far too busy making smart remarks and drinking herself into an early grave to give a shit.

But, your mind whispers treacherously, she was also just a child when she had to start shepherding new unfortunates to the stockyard. What would it be like, having to look into the eyes of kids who depended on you, who hoped against hope that you could save them, and know that no matter what you did they would be dead within a month? To do that over and over again, through your entire adult life, with no end in sight – unless some other poor fucker actually manages to survive, starting the endless cycle once again. Would you be that much better? Would you be sober? Would you simply have ended your life years ago rather than have to face it all again?

Meenah looks you square in the eye as she takes a long drag of something that could probably strip paint off a wall from her flask, and you get the unnerving impression that she can tell what you’re thinking. Terezi’s nose wrinkles slightly as Meenah puts the uncorked flask down on the table, and for some reason her hand goes to a brooch she’s wearing pinned to her vest, caressing its smooth golden edges.

“So, if I can talk uninterrupted for two seconds, the point is that this shit fucking sucks. It sucks for you, it sucks for me, it even sucks for Fifi because I’m pretty sure she’s actually got a brain somewhere under all that hair. And we could just accept that, I guess, but you know what that would make us? Suckers.” She stares you down, leans in closer. “I haven’t survived this long to be a sucker, you hear me? We can be as mad as we want, we can realize that we’re screwed, but you know what that’s gonna change? Nothing. Zilch. Fuckall.” This really isn’t where you expected the conversation to do, and you shift nervously where you sit, feeling pinned to your seat by her dark, unwavering stare. “So what we_ can_ do is fight. Like it or not, that’s the only thing that’s gonna make a lick of difference right here and now. If you’re gonna be mad, use it. Don’t take this shit lying down. I can already tell that you ain’t the sort to do that anyway, so I don’t want any more of this ‘going in there just to die’ kind of attitude.”

There’s a moment of ringing silence, during which you study the hard features of the woman in front of you. There’s something burning in her eyes, and you wonder how you missed it before, because it looks like it’s on the verge of consuming her. Oh shit, you think distantly. She’s crazy, isn’t she? But maybe that’s what she has to be to keep fighting. Maybe that actually makes sense.

“Sooo... what do we do?” Terezi demands, sitting up straight in her chair now, her body caught between a challenge and a request. “I like where this is going, but that’s really not the same thing as knowing how we’re supposed to get there. In case that wasn’t clear, you probably couldn’t have any worse luck with your candidates this year. As you so perceptively noted, I’m blind, and Karkat must weigh approximately a hundred pounds soaking wet.”

“How-?” you splutter, embarrassed and confused, but she cuts you short.

“I can hear it. Well, obviously I had to guesstimate, but the sound of footsteps is different depending on weight, that’s kind of obvious. Also your steps are closer together when you walk, and your voice comes from further down, so that must mean you’re short. Short _and_ skinny. Then all I had to do was have a wild guess.”

“Yeah well, I’m not blind, so I couldn’t do all that fancy calculating, but on the upside that means I just had to look at Shouty once to know that too,” Meenah says with a shrug. “You’re blind, he’s tiny, big deal. Here’s what I saw, though. I saw you, Blind Girl, volunteering with a fucking smile on your face. Don’t really matter why you did it, though the sister story will probably tug at some heartstrings out there, but the important thing is that you stood up in front of everyone and smiled. That took some balls. I wanna see more of that.” She turns slightly, stabs her finger at you in a way that makes you flinch. “Same deal for you, Shouty. I wanna see more of that fight.”

“Okay, that’s great, except I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” you shoot back, squirming at being put on the spot like this. “I didn’t volunteer. I’m here because my name was in there twenty-two fucking times and I guess the odds weren’t in my favour today, that’s it. There’s nothing heroic about that, alright?”

“You sure?” She raises an eyebrow at you. “Cuz see, since Blind Girl had put up such an excellent show, I was actually watching for a change. Which means I saw you, standing next to a guy who had twice your shoulders and nearly twice your height on him, real beast of a guy, coulda shaken the odds in the Capitol just by showing up looking like that. And I saw the way he looked at you, like he was thinking maybe he should go and do it instead. Dunno if he’s your boyfriend or you’re just a really fucking amazing friend, doesn’t really matter, but that shit was _clear as day_.” She smacks one hand into the other for emphasis. “And what did you do? You shook your fucking head at him. Didn’t even hesitate. Maybe it’s not the same as volunteering yourself, but you ain’t gonna tell me that didn’t take some guts.”

You shake your head numbly, looking away. “It’s just- He’s sick, alright? If I let him go in there-” Unbidden, you remember what Gamzee was like in the middle of one of his fits, back when he was just a kid. The scary shit that would come out of his mouth, the way it took several adults to hold him down. Maybe in the arena that shit would have him instantly killed, or maybe it would just make him one of those kids who lost it and went completely feral on their fellow tributes. He could’ve come home a winner, but… would it really be Gamzee that came home? How much of him would be left, after they let the horrors out from where your father had confined them and then forced him to kill people? Somehow, that seems like a potentially even worse outcome. Your sweet-tempered, kind of slow friend, being treated like some kind of monster once again, maybe never able to make it out of the nightmares…

You shudder. Besides, if he’d taken your place and then ended up killing Terezi… somehow that thought makes you feel even more ill than you already did.

Meenah just shrugs. “Sick or not, most people wouldn’t turn that down. Most people would sleep well enough at night knowing that at least their friend was twice their size and would be expected to have a sporting chance.”

“Yeah, well, most people are flaming assholes. What else is new?” you demand.

She lets out a sound that you’d call a giggle if it didn’t also freeze your spine. “That’s the spirit, Shouty. Now, we’re gonna need to discuss-”

“Here’s dinner! So sorry, there’s only so much one can hurry an excellent feast like this, see?” Feferi blinks at the three of you as you turn in the direction of the sudden interruption. Her eyelashes must be some kind of extensions, because they stick out at least an inch from her face. “Oh good, you’re all seated,” she says, with that little excited squeak on all her e-sounds that seems to be her personal addition to the ridiculous Capitol accent. You notice that she’s now wearing pink fluffy slippers instead of her shoes, which still lay abandoned on the dining room floor. “Let’s dig into the appetizers then! But please remember to not eat too much early on, since there are more courses to come. We don’t want any digestive upsets, right?”

“Okay, so new plan,” Meenah says, downing the rest of her flask in one go and then making it disappear. “We have dinner first, then we discuss what you kids can do apart from mouth off and estimate weight based on the tip-tapping of little feet. Sound good?”

* * *

You lean back against the cushions as Rose Lalonde turns the sound down on her TV, now that the first reruns of the televised reapings are over. Her sofa feels like a cloud, molding itself to your body every time you move even slightly, and since your job officially speaking is to lounge around and look good, you might as well be comfortable. That’s how you usually deal with that particular task, anyway. As for your _unofficial_ job tonight, the strategy meeting has been wrapped up already, and when Dirk had gone off to have a shower, the rest of you had decided you might as well watch this year’s tributes being picked. Not that there won’t be countless more reruns, of course, and you’re sure Rose and Jane will have to rewatch the whole thing more than once, to work out different strategies based on psychological assessments of the tributes. But the rest of you hadn’t seen the full thing yet, due to your duties as victors requiring you to be present for the actual ceremonies in your districts. It had been harrowing as usual, but for the first year since winning you are not officially mentoring this year. Neither of you are. Rose had wanted your hands free to gather as much information as possible.

You watch her now, as she crosses her legs and jots something down on a notepad, a slim woman in a black silk night shift, her back straight and her shoulders relaxed as she works. Apart from her silvery hair and purple eyes, you hadn’t noticed any particular modifications on her before, but that’s because she usually wears long sleeves. Now you can see the interlocking patterns of black lines picked out in exquisite detail on her light brown skin, swirling from her wrists to her shoulders and then entwining all the way down where the back of her shift dips into a low v-line. You squint at the design, try to find something you recognize, but it looks completely abstract at first. Or maybe… are those octopus tentacles? The more you stare, the more you’re certain. You cannot see where any one animal is supposed to begin or end, it’s all a mass of delicate lines that manages to form a whole which looks... vaguely threatening, the more you look at it.

She looks up, raising her eyebrows at you briefly before she focuses once more at her work. Your answering smile was queasy at best, because no matter how hard you try to tell yourself that she almost looks harmless like this, there’s a core part of you that remains unconvinced. Your ally for several years or not, she is a Gamemaker. In just a few days, she will be walking into the control room under the Arena and start trying to kill children in ways that the Capitol will find interesting. Unlike Jane, she’s never really given either of you a reason for why she’s doing this, what she gets out of trying to topple the whole system she so clearly benefits from, other than a vague sense that she’s the kind of person who would tear the whole world down just to see what happens next. She’s smiling now, the inward smile of someone who just came up with a really good joke, and is waiting for the right moment to share it. You’re not sure if it has something to do with the reaping; you thought she had a strange reaction to that one unprecedented volunteer from Twelve, but you’re not certain. Jane definitely did, and she’s now tapping away on a small computer at the dining table, mumbling to herself in letters and numbers.

The pretense of a special indulgence right before the Games start has allowed a number of you to be here together; otherwise you’re usually very careful about not meeting too often, and not letting it seem like the connections between any of you are more than fleeting – with one obvious exception, of course. Which you’re not sorry about at all. But there’s nothing strange about two colleagues who are rumored to possibly be more than friends, engaging a small group of pretty victors for a special evening together. No one will find that suspicious at all… or so you very fervently hope. If anyone does suspect you, at the very least you hope that they will wait a while before they drag you away to the secret torture chambers they supposedly have under the Training Center; specifically until a moment when you’re not dressed in these diaphanous golden veils and literally nothing else. The point is that your stylist made you look like slutty curtains for the evening, and you’re just not sure how to feel about it.

The stylists responsible for the Striders are a little more conventional, which you’re simultaneously grateful for, for their sake, while at the same time being a little bit jealous as well. Dave Strider, sprawled on Rose’s fluffy white rug, is wearing bright red leather pants, a black tank top glittering with tiny beads in the same color, and a low cut vest in a flowing dark red fabric. For the Capitol, that’s pretty subdued, all things considered, although it would of course be considered garish back in the districts. Nothing has of course managed to part him from his ubiquitous glasses, but you notice that his stylist has adorned them with little stick-on red gem stones.

He notices you watching him, and maybe he also feels like the silence is getting oppressive, because he decides to speak up. Either that or he just realized that it’s been at least ten minutes since he said anything last. “Can’t say I’m surprised that Jack Noir volunteered for our district this year, but that just means it’ll be another year when it’ll be really fucking hard to get a victor from anywhere except Two. Maybe the girl from One, she seemed pretty ruthless and smart.”

“I wouldn’t discount some of the others yet either,” Rose mumbles, tapping her pen against her paper. “A straightforward battle and an arena are quite different things, after all.” Her smile is secretive, making you think that there definitely is something she’s choosing not to reveal, but for the life of you, you cannot imagine what. Dave Strider levels a completely neutral look at her in return, and you’re glad you’re not the only one who clearly feels uncomfortable in her company, wary of her motivations and her absolute confidence. At least that’s what you infer from his studied lack of reaction, although admittedly it’s still hard to tell with those two. Perhaps you’re just projecting your own nervosity onto him.

You aren’t aware of quite how tense your shoulders are until a couple of warm hands descends on them, starting to efficiently rub the knots out of them. You tilt your head back and smile warmly up at Dirk, who looks back at you with the same expression he pretty much always wears, except when the two of you are alone. He’s left off his clothes, which were more or less the same as Dave’s except picked out in amber and dark brown, and is only wearing a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair, bereft of the usual rigid casing of products, is falling in soft, messy waves around his face. You know he hates it when it’s like that, but you have to admit you kind of prefer it. You reach up, tucking a still moist lock behind his ear.

“Disgusting,” Dave opines with fond amusement. “Assaulting my poor eyes with this insipid horseshit ought to be a much more severe crime than a little light treason against the Capitol.”

“You were in there a long time,” you say, ignoring him.

“What can I say?” Dirk shrugs one shoulder, digging his thumb into your shoulder in a way that forces a quiet groan from your lips. “I can pretty much take or leave most Capitol luxuries, and some of them I’d personally outlaw if I could, and have their inventors put to death in an unspecified way, which may or may not involve blow torches and electrodes, but which definitely involves that fucking drink that makes you barf so you can stuff yourself further. But showers? Showers is the only thing of value that this godforsaken place truly has to offer.”

“Oho, only showers, is it?” you say teasingly.

He snorts. “You’re not from here, Jake. Meeting you here doesn’t change that.”

Rose watches you with open amusement, clearly not offended by his words. “Well, is there anything else we should be discussing, before we turn in for the night?” She frowns slightly. “And where did my fourth guest go, again?”

“Think she’s raiding your kitchen,” Dave says, gesturing vaguely with his foot in the direction the victor from Seven had left in. “Must be hungry after the nonstop heinous bitch commentary all evening – I know I’d deplete all my resources and die from acute heart failure before I managed to be even half the screeching hellion she is without even trying.”

“Wow, you’re so _hilarious, _Strider.” Even though she’s shouting from the kitchen, you can hear exactly when she rolls her eyes. “Not everyone can be a gabbling sissy who doesn’t even have the balls to insult a lady to her face. Pretty lame, if you ask me.”

“See, you’d have a point if the only lady present wasn’t Jane, and she’s right here.” He shrugs. “No offense, Rose.”

“Absolutely none taken,” she replies with a small smile. Jane covers her mouth, which does very little to muffle her small chuckle.

There’s a crash from the kitchen, and a moment later the last member of your little party reappears, balancing a couple of sandwiches on a plate.

Rose sighs. “What did you break?”

“A jar of peanut butter,” comes the unbothered reply as she throws herself onto the other end of the sofa, licking some of the same substance off her hand.

“And I suppose it’s too much to ask that you clean it up?”

She laughs incredulously. “Yes. Why the fuck would I want to do that?” A tiny woman with very pale brown skin and a tangled mass of curly black hair, Vriska seems to radiate some kind of coiled up, barely contained force which might at any point unwind and take your fingers off if you happen to stand too close. This isn’t the only reason why many tend to avoid this particularly infamous victor from District Seven, since there are many to pick from, ranging from the cruel sense of humor to her messy personal habits, but it certainly is one of them. Something about her always reminds you of those steel leg hold traps the Peacemakers of your district place around the facility where pearls are sorted before shipping. She stretches out, unperturbed. “If you want it off your floor so badly, why don’t you just wake up that useless assistant of yours and make _him_ do it.”

You all glance toward the chaise where Rose’s surly assistant had finally complained himself to sleep at some point during your meeting. “Please don’t,” Jane says at the exact same time as Dirk and Dave say, “Please do,” and you know all three of them are saying it for the exact same reason.

Rose raises one already arched eyebrow further. “As much as I enjoy torturing Eridan, perhaps I’ll do that later. For now, everyone take care if they’re going into the kitchen, I suppose.”

“So,” Dirk says, sliding his hands forwards until he’s leaning with his elbows on your shoulders, “did I miss something?”

“Not much,” Jane says, finally closing her computer. “We watched the reaping. There was nothing out of the ordinary, save for a volunteer from Twelve.” She exchanges a fleeting look with Rose, then looks away. You wonder if the rumors about the two of them being a couple have any substance at all. Despite being very good at deciphering rumors and secrets at this point, you really can’t tell. They’ve certainly been all business this evening, but that doesn’t really say much.

“She _was _pretty much the only one who wasn’t a complete bore,” Vriska says through a mouthful of sandwich. “She’s blind, though.”

You exchange a look with Dave, see the same tension around his eyes and in his hands as is once again settling in your shoulders. Dirk must feel it, because he leans in and briefly nuzzles your cheek. “Shame,” he says. “That would make at least a few assholes choke on their pâté. A volunteer from Twelve winning, I mean.”

”Yeah. Shame,” Dave echoes hollowly.

You clench your fists in frustration, wondering if there’s a single person outside this room in the Capitol who is actually considering how monstrous it really is. Most victors won’t arrive until tomorrow, so you’re honestly not certain. “She went in instead of her little sister,” you mumble, thinking of Jade’s eyes meeting yours across the crowd during the reaping. The tears that had filled them up as another girl was drawn, as relief mixed with sorrow.

“Fuck,” Dirk says quietly, his arms tightening around you. Dave removes his shades and rubs his hand tiredly across his eyes. Even Vriska is quiet, knees pulled up to her skinny chest, chewing on her sandwich as if she has a personal vendetta against it.

“I think,” Jane says carefully, watching the four of you with obvious sympathy, “that there’s not much else to talk about. We’ll all feel better after we’ve had some rest.”

There’s always been a nurturing quality about her, one with an almost desperate edge to it, and while it can be a bit awkward at times, right now you really appreciate it. This morning feels like it happened a lifetime ago, the tension of reaping day staying with you even as you were flown into the Capitol to partake in Rose’s pretend party. It’s not even that late, but you feel stretched thin and drained empty to the core. You know there’s nice bedding set up on the floor of Rose’s fancy play room, and while you could do without the decoration in there, tasteful as it is, all you can really focus on now is the thought of warm blankets, soft pillows, and Dirk’s arms around you.

Tomorrow, the Games begin for real once again. Tomorrow, twenty-four tributes will ride in their chariots toward the city circle, and the adoring masses will scream themselves hoarse for their attention, for their favour, for their blood. You’ll meet up with Grandma Harley, who is mentoring the tributes instead of you, and pretend to exchange pleasantries while relaying whatever information you can. You’ll help her whenever possible during the Games, but spend the rest of your time in and out of different beds, filling yourself up with secrets until it feels like poison ought to seep from your skin. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a chance or two to bury your memories in Dirk’s lips for a fleeting moment.

You will wait, as you have already waited for six long years. But you’re not the only one. You look across at Vriska as she shoves the entirety of what’s left of her second sandwich into her mouth, brushes off the crumbs onto the sofa, and stands up. You wouldn’t really call her a friend, but she’s been been waiting too, three years since she came swearing and bloody out of the arena. She’s tough, and nasty, and you’re not sure if there’s actually a single person in the world that she cares about more than herself, but she’s on your side. That counts for a lot.

Two years for Dave. One for Dirk. Who knows how many more years before anything will change.

Yes, you need to rest. You’re tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear the hardest thing i've ever done is writing Meenah w/o making fish puns. The Struggle(tm).


	11. Black, white, crimson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have to play along. Your options at this point are limited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blarrrrgh, this obviously took a lot longer ahahah. i mean, i obviously wasn't going to keep up the same hectic tempo as in the beginning, but this took way longer than necessary bc my computer died, and once i got it back and running i needed to focus on a chapter for my other fic before getting to this one, since that one had gone without an update even longer. but here we are, and the next chapter shouldn't take nearly as long.
> 
> the perspective order in this chapter goes terezi > karkat, bc I've gotta stay w our tributes for a little while longer. i'll shake it up a bit in the next chapter.

“Time for some real talk,” Meenah announces, underscoring her statement with something that sounds like metal meeting wood. An educated guess says she just stabbed her steak knife into the dining table, a theory that is somewhat supported by the exasperated sigh from Feferi that follows. You feel around for your napkin, attempting to rid your lips of the sticky feeling left by the sugar-loaded dessert. You half wish you had some water to dip the cloth in, that would be more effective, but the unfamiliar shape and weight of the pitcher here – it feels like an enormous chunk of glass instead of tin or carved wood – had already made refilling your glass once a seriously messy affair, and you’d had to restrain yourself from emptying the whole thing over Karkat’s head when he offered to help you. You don’t feel like bringing more attention than necessary to any obvious difficulties you’re having in this new environment, not when Meenah is supposed to be assessing you for the Games. The last thing you need is being seen as some kind of helpless, tragic waif.

“First, survival skills. Unless you’re a career tribute, you’re going to have to know how to feed and warm yourselves somehow. Since we’re officially as far from being career tributes as it’s possible to get, this shit is vitally important. So what’ve you got?”

You sigh. What can you say? You’ve never been outside the district in your life, never had to contend with any kind of wilderness, never set foot on rougher terrain than the slag heaps around the mines. You know already that the latter point is going to be one of your greatest challenges, because all you need is to fall on your face or twist your ankle at the wrong time and it’s all over. Even so, you’ve got to have _something_ to say. There is no way you’re outshining Karkat on this one, not with his family, but you refuse to simply have nothing to say.

“I can always tell if food or water has gone bad,” you say, knowing it’s weak. “They give us a lot of shit food at the community home, I had to learn to decide when it’s good enough to eat, and when it’s better to just go hungry.”

“That’s a fucking understatement,” Karkat mutters next to you. “She fucking knew that one of our classmates was eating a sandwich with bad ham on it from across the room. The dumb girl just kept eating despite being warned, though. She was throwing up all over her desk before the day was over.”

“I’m not sure that’s much to brag about,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “I have no idea how everyone else was putting up with the stink – and to be honest I was just trying to save myself from having to smell it all over when she was yakking it up.”

“We can work with it,” Meenah says thoughtfully. “You’d be surprised how much of an edge not drinking bad water just because you’re thirsty might give you. But you gotta find the food or the water before that, though.” She’s tapping again, the uneven rhythm telling you that she must be missing parts of her fingers. The ring and middle finger, from the sound of it. “There will be samples of both edible and inedible plants at the Tribute Center, and one station is meant to familiarize you with the signs of a fresh water source. As soon as you’re there, I want you to smell everything you can, is that clear?”

Karkat lets out a short bark of laughter. “You don’t actually have to tell her that. She’ll probably be sniffing the other tributes too.”

“Huh.” Meenah sounds intrigued. “Why?”

“Because she sniffs_ everyone_. It’s this thing she does.”

You aren’t going to deny that. You’d started doing it while still trying to find the person who had given you the food, and once you’d figured out it was Karkat it had already become a habit, as well as a weird kind of interest. “People smell different,” you explain, nibbling on a slice of soft fruit that tastes like honey. Feferi had called them melons. “It’s not just a matter of how often they bathe or what they ate for dinner. Their bodies have their own smell, and it’s easier to tell people apart and know where they are in a room if you know what they smell like. It feels like… shapes in my head, I guess.” You grin. “Besides, you wouldn’t believe the kind of fuss people kick up just because you try to get a quick whiff of them. It’s _hilarious_.”

“See, I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Meenah says with a laugh. “Not sure how useful that might be yet, but there’s no reason to not play up something that sets you apart as much as possible. Keep ‘em guessing.” She sighs, sending a gust of liquor smell across the table. “And it’s the kind of shit that appeals to the Capitol, showing that you’re special rather than just tragic, you hear me?”

You know she’s right, but the thought still rankles. “Right. Making up for my blindness with my uniqueness, is that what you’re saying? My super special smelling powers.” You can’t help the bitterness that creeps into your tone, because you hate that shit, the idea that you have to be some kind of genius in a way that cutely contrasts with your blindness, making it seem like some kind of beautiful gift. That’s why you’d stopped singing, too. If just one more old lady burst into tears over the angelic singing blind girl, you were going to commit something truly gruesome with the nearest blunt implement at hand.

It’s just so everyone will get to enjoy feeling sorry for you while patting themselves on the back for recognizing that you still have some kind of worth. If you can’t do something everyone else can do, it’s not enough to just be a person. You have to prove that you still deserve respect. You’re already used to that, so really, it’s not going to be all that different to have to do it in the Capitol too.

“That’s it, kid,” Meenah agrees, darkly amused. “Just another act in the freakshow.”

That’s enough, you decide. Besides, Karkat’s relative silence is getting on your nerves. Of all the times for the guy to learn how to shut up, this is probably the worst moment he could’ve picked. Is he trying to not make you look bad? Probably. Which means he feels sorry for you, and you’re not having that. Not from someone who is almost as sure to die as you are. “Either way, I’m not the survival expert here.” You lean sideways and nudge him hard in the ribs with your elbow, taking petty pleasure in the way he jumps and makes an affronted little sound. “I’m kind of assuming he doesn’t look like much, but I know his mom must’ve taught him something. I know he forages for herbs for his dad’s medicines, and I’ve heard he sells berries to the bakery too.”

“Yeah, that will be helpful. Maybe I can bake myself a nice pie from all those berries I’m sure to find. Oooh, and then I can make an herbal poultice to ease the pain when the careers find me and chop my fucking head off!”

“Hey! What did I say about that kind of sucker attitude?” Meenah demands, and you’re honestly feeling pretty grateful about it. You’d known that he’s highly strung, practically everyone who has ever been within earshot to his shouting knows about that – and that probably accounts for all of District Twelve – but you hadn’t realized quite how tiring it gets in an actual conversation with him. It would probably also be pretty funny to tease him about it, if you weren’t already so exhausted. How late is it? Past nine, you decide. You’ve always had a good internal sense for that kind of thing. “Listen,” Meenah says, “Blind Girl is right. To know how to find things to eat without dying, to find water, to find shelter, those are invaluable skills in there. You’ve seen the Games, you know how many kids die without ever fighting anyone, because hunger, thirst, cold… all of that don’t need no knife and it can always find you. The whole point of this conversation is that I need to find out what I’ve got to work with, so stop being a pissbaby about it and just tell me already.”

There’s a sullen silence from Karkat for a moment or two, then he sighs and shifts in his seat, and you hear him crossing his arms again. “I know how to forage for food and look for water. I can climb trees fast and shelter in them. There’s no fucking way I can run faster than a career, but I can probably outpace anyone who isn’t used to running in a forest for at least a little while. And I help dad a lot with his medicines, so I might be able to do something about smaller wounds or light fevers, things like that.”

“Can you hunt? Shoot, use a slingshot, build snares? Did Leijon teach you any of that?” Meenah demands. You’ve never heard that name before, but you guess it must be Karkat’s mother’s old last name. People who get married in Twelve will usually decide before time whose name they prefer to take on, or sometimes come up with a new name as married.

“I- I can’t,” Karkat mutters, for some reason sounding embarrassed about it. “She never managed to teach me before- before she was hurt in that explosion.”

That doesn’t quite add up to you. It was the same explosion that took your father and Porrim’s wife, and that had happened back when you were both slightly older than ten. Surely a boy that age would at least be able to build snares and use a slingshot, maybe draw a bow if it was small enough too? You obviously don’t know too much about archery, but that sounds reasonable. So why hadn’t his mother taught him – to protect him? That seemed foolish. A skill like that could keep a person alive, could make the difference between life and death during particularly tough winters. It was well worth the fairly small risk of being encountered with a weapon.

But if Meenah notices the strangeness of it, she apparently isn’t curious enough to ask. “Shame,” is all she says. “Alright, so on that subject, do either of you know how to fight at all?”

You know that Karkat had gotten_ into _plenty of scuffles at school for a while, which is hardly strange considering the way he constantly runs his mouth. But from the sound of it, he hadn’t exactly made a habit of coming out of those fights a victor. Once he started hanging out with Gamzee more often, not many wanted to pick fights with him, and you can’t imagine where else he would’ve learned to defend himself. So you’re not surprised when he sullenly replies, “No. I know how to get roughed up without getting too hurt, but I doubt that’s going to fucking help against a sword or a spear. And I don’t think trying to learn will do me much good either, not when there are tributes twice my size with years and years of training in there.”

“Yeah, obviously you’re not going to hold your own against career tributes. When it comes to them, your strategy is going to be hiding and running, in that order. But learning some basic defensive moves is still important. Not everyone in there is a fucking career, but everyone in there _is_ trying to kill you. That means you’re likely to fetch up against someone closer to your own size and skill, so every little bit helps. The kids from the industrial districts, six or eight for example, you can easily outlast most of them when it comes to survival, so it’d be a shame if one of them stabbed you dead because you didn’t know the first thing about fighting back.”

Karkat draws in a breath as if to argue, but then you hear him slumping back in his chair, letting that breath out again in an explosive sigh. “Fine. I’ll try. It’s not like that’s going to make anything worse, even if that’s mostly just because that’s probably not possible.” He sounds tired too. “Maybe I can learn enough to get someone to let go of me long enough to let me run away. It’s better than nothing.”

“Exactly. And if possible, try to learn at least one method of killing someone quickly and cleanly. It’s harder than it seems, human bodies can take a lot, and no one wants that shit to get any messier than it strictly has to.”

Karkat doesn’t reply at all to that, but you can hear how strained and unhappy his breathing suddenly sounds. He doesn’t really have to say anything, anyway. It’s painfully obvious to anyone with a brain that it would take months, maybe years to turn that boy into a killer, and maybe not even that would be enough. Either way, it’s time you simply do not have. But he won’t protest either. If he does not kill, his chances of surviving are almost nonexistent. At least if he learns the techniques, he might be able to use them if he gets desperate or terrified enough.

He’s quiet for another moment, his breathing slowing down, and you get a feeling you know what he’s about to do next. So when he tries to jab his elbow into your ribs in revenge for your little nudge earlier, you catch it, lifting it sharply upward so he has to slam his other hand on the table to stop from planting his face on it instead. “Hah!” Despite that, he sounds triumphant, and you realize he might actually have done that on purpose. The cleaver little weasel. “So who is being modest now, anyway?”

You let go of his elbow with a small snort. “What’s modesty got to do with it? I was just being polite and waiting my turn – we can’t _all_ go around shouting others down, you know.” You feel around on the table and grab your plate, shoving it out of the way so you can lean your elbows on the table. “But yes, I can fight. My mother had started to teach me before she died, and the people of the Hob kept teaching me when she was gone.” You shrug. “And at the community home there aren’t many options. If I wanted to eat, I had to fight.”

“Huh.” Meenah is very clearly not easily impressed, but she at least sounds approving. “I’m guessing you use your cane as well as your hands?”

You make a slightly incredulous little noise. “Yeah, since I’m not about to let go of it the moment someone attacks me, and it’s always with me, I kind of had to learn.”

“Alright. Since I really fucking doubt that they’re gonna let you into the Arena with it, not since it can be used as a weapon, your first priority on entering the Games will be to get your hands on something to replace it. There’ll be something at the Cornucopia, you can bet on it, but before you ever risk that you’ll look for other options. Saplings if you’re in a forest, metal pipes if you’re in ruins, and if you’re somewhere else… well, fuck, try to be creative. Before that, try to get a feeling for different spears and staffs in training, just so you get used to different weights..”

You hadn’t thought of that. The thought of going in there without your cane is a little bit like imagining being in the games without one of your arms, or with one foot chopped off. It’s every bit as much part of you, and the idea of someone just taking it from you makes you feel sick… sick and _furious_. You focus on that, trapping your fear inside your anger, making it smaller and smaller and saving it for later. You’ll deal with it alone.

Meenah is quiet for a moment, probably gauging your reaction. “None of it’s gonna be easy and none of it’s gonna be fair,” she finally says, almost casually. “But the thing is, you’re used to that, isn’t that right? That’s all you’ve ever known, so it ain’t gonna come as a shock. So all you gotta do is try to use what you’ve got to your advantage. Everyone in there is going to underestimate the two of you, a lot of them are cocky little assholes, and that will be your greatest weapon. If they don’t expect anything of you, that means they won’t see you coming until it’s too late.”

It’s a dark and bitter kind of hope, but Meenah is right. It’s the only kind of hope you’ve ever had. That sets you apart from your strongest opponents, the ones who go in there because they’re certain they have a chance to win. For all that they’re district people like you, their actions show that they aren’t as used to swallowing down despair and hunger and a mouthful of blood, and then picking themselves up again. Anyone who is used to that kind of scarcity, that life at the very edge, wouldn’t fuck around and risk everything just for a fancier home and a moment of glory… not unless the alternative would be a whole lot worse.

There’s a faint textile noise at your left, suggesting that Karkat is doing something with the table cloth. Clutching at the hem of it, you would guess.

“Right, I think that’s enough for tonight!” Feferi suddenly exclaims, clapping her hands together, and after such a long time of quite frankly uncharacteristic silence, it’s a bit of a shock. The sound of Karkat’s glass wobbling suggests that she didn’t just make you jump, which makes you feel a bit better about it. “It’s been a really exciting day for us all, and you can bet tomorrow will be just as thrilling, so let’s just watch- well, watch or listen to the recaps of the reapings and then all get an early night and gather some strength? Come, come, it’s going to start at any moment now, let’s not dawdle.” She grabs your arm in her excitement, and you immediately pull it free and back away, reaching for your cane. If there’s anything you hate, it’s people grabbing you and pulling you around.

“Thanks, I think I can navigate down a corridor on my own.”

You half expect her to admonish you, or even make an attempt to grab you again. So her answer surprises you. “Of course. I’m so sorry. Come along, then!” From the sound of it, she’s definitely dragging Karkat with her instead, and while he’s customarily vocal about his protests, he nonetheless seems to allow her to tow him along. You follow them, only pausing briefly in the door, listening for the sound of Meenah’s breathing behind you.

“What about you?” you demand with your back to her.

“I’m staying here, kid. Got a whole bar to catch up with and really get to know better.” As if to demonstrate the fact, there’s a loud glugging noise which goes on for almost half a minute, before there’s the pop of released vacuum and she draws in a deep, shuddering breath. Her voice is slightly more hoarse when she speaks next. “Fifi’s right, you’re gonna need your sleep. Get lost, brat.”

The sweet liquor smell seems to live under your skin, creeping up your spine, and you know it’ll awaken more memories if you let it. So you incline your head and leave as quickly as you can. She’s given you some hope, and you can’t ask for more than that. And you know without asking that you can’t give her anything like that in return.

* * *

Feferi Peixes had waxed lyrical about how well one is supposed to sleep on trains, but it doesn’t seem to have worked on you. Nor had the nice silky sheets, the wonderfully soft mattress or the warm, fuzzy nightshirt. After crying yourself to sleep, with a corner of the pillow crammed in your mouth to muffle your sobs so the Capitol attendants outside wouldn’t hear, you’d had restless dreams all night. Dreams of your mother, her skin an ashy pale brown under its coating of coal dust, blood running out of her ears and down her neck, crawling out of the earth and grasping desperately at your clothes. Dreams that echo of Porrim’s heartbroken sobs, reaching you from the loft where she slept after her wife died. Dreams where you lose hold of Nepeta’s hand in a crowd of faceless people, and you hear her crying but can’t find her again. Dreams where Gamzee turns his dark eyes on you, wide in alarm, and tell you that he can hear them whispering to him again.

Right when the dreams finally calmed down, and you thought you could feel you father’s hand resting on your hair, his warm voice telling you stories to make you sleep, Feferi’s brisk voice and urgent knocking brusquely scattered your dreams and shook you awake. After fighting down the wave of panic at remembering where you were, what was going to happen to you, you got up and shuffled reluctantly into the dining room. Breakfast went well right right up until Feferi made a well-meaning but tactless compliment about how well-mannered you both were compared to previous tributes, at which point you felt forced to eat the rest of your breakfast with your hands, as sloppily as you possibly could, staring her down while you did. At least that makes Meenah chuckle, and since she’d been nursing a hangover and had been waspish and dismissive until that point, you consider it to be some kind of small win.

Then the wagon suddenly goes dark, and you look around in confusion, hastily wiping your hands on the table cloth. Getting to your feet, you step over to the window, trying to see what’s happening outside, but all you can make out is the vague details of a rock wall rushing by outside. This must be the mountains surrounding the Capitol, meaning that you’re only minutes away now. As you stand there, staring fixedly at the darkness, a sharp elbow lands on your shoulder, and then Terezi is leaning against you, her chin propped on your head. She’s as skinny as anyone in the Seam, but since she’s substantially taller than you her weight still forces you forward, and you have to grab the handrail by the window for support. You have no idea what she’s doing; you know from watching her that she has a very shaky grasp of personal space, but it seems strange to get so close to someone who is soon going to be your competition in the Arena. Unless she’s doing it to mess with your head, you guess.

“So, what’s happening outside? Something changed, right?”

“How can you tell?”

You feel the twitch of her shrug shaking you slightly. “Because you got up so suddenly and went to the window, of course. So, what’s out there?”

“Nothing. We’re in a fucking tunnel and I can’t see shit.”

“Wow, that sounds terrible for you.”

“W- I didn’t mean-” You splutter, feeling awkward and tactless and stupid, but she just cackles, poking your cheek gleefully with one spindly pale hand.

“You get embarrassed really easily, don’t you?”

“Well, first of all _fuck y_-” You fall silent as the darkness disappears so suddenly that it leaves you blinded, letting out an involuntary gasp. The world around you is suddenly full of color, movement, impossible grandeur. The buildings tower far above, the water of decorative canals glitters, the people look like strangely colored, erratically moving birds, and even the streets are paved in pastels and look clean enough to eat from.

“What happened now?” Terezi demands, smacking her cane against your side with her free hand.

You swallow hard, already uncomfortable with the way the crowds are staring at you, pointing excitedly, waving. “It’s the Capitol. The streets are full of gawking idiots who can’t wait to watch us bleed.” You try to twist free of her, get away from the window, but she pins you in place as she grins like a maniac and starts waving at the adoring crowd.

“You don’t have to actually like them,” she tells you between her teeth as you twist around to stare at her, and you think of how animals only show their teeth when they’re preparing to fight, “but you’re supposed to pretend like you do, remember? So stop being rude and say hi to your fans.”

“Listen to Blind Girl,” Meenah mutters from the table. You glance over your shoulder and see her tipping an amber liquid into her cup of coffee, stirring it with a chocolate cookie. “She’s smart.”

You grimace, and honestly you think if you forced yourself to smile it would look sickly and fake. You lift your hand, thinking that you might at least try to wave at them, even if the gesture is unconvinced and pitiful. Maybe they’ll think that you’re awestruck, that you’re completely overwhelmed? But the anger never bubbles far under the surface, and you remember your father’s rambling lectures about systemic injustice; your mother gazing at the forests with longing, a world now closed to her forever; Porrim’s expression as she comforted the mother of a dead child; your little sister crying with hunger and sickness during the last month of a bad winter. These are the people that your family has suffered for, just so they can sit on their asses and eat good food all day. Without thinking about what you’re doing, you turn your hand around and extend one finger, flipping off the whole sorry lot of them.

Once the horror of what you’re doing catches up with you, you decide you can’t back off now, or it will make you look weak. So you hold your back straight, feeling Terezi’s breath against the back of your neck as you solemnly invite the Capitol to go fuck itself.

“That doesn’t feel like waving to me,” the girl behind you points out. She takes her arm off your shoulder and flails her hand around until she catches yours, exploring the shape with her fingers. “Tsk tsk, Mr Vantas. Didn’t your mother teach you better than that?”

“Actually, this is the first sign my mother ever taught me.” Far before she ever lost her hearing, at a man who shouted invitations after her. “So maybe I’m just trying to do her proud, you ever think of that?”

She sighs. “Stubborn,” she remarks.

You can’t figure out what Terezi’s deal is, why she wouldn’t just let you make and ass of yourself without arguing with you about it. If you do stupid shit to get yourself killed, isn’t that so much better for her? So why is she trying to make you play nice with her?

It’s a relief when the train pulls into the station, which has apparently been closed down to receive the tributes today. You’re bundled into a car and sent off to a building full of white tile and shining steel, where the torture begins. And by torture, you guess you mean beautification at the hands of your prep team, scrubbing your skin raw and dousing you in chemicals, ripping out your body hair at the roots. You mutter uncharitable curses under your breath, and they look down your noses at you, this strange freakshow of tattooed and augmented beings. You look away, stare at the floor, and grit your teeth. This has to happen. Meenah had told you not to resist.

Somehow it’s the haircut that rankles most. They exclaim over how thick and glossy your hair is, and you suppose you’re meant to feel flattered, but all you can think is that it’s not your father’s soft hands and the kitchen scissors, in front of the fire on some cold winter evening with nothing to do, our outside in the sweet-smelling breeze on a summer morning. Ever since you were small he’s cut your hair for you, and somehow it feels disrespectful to him to let these vultures get their hands on it. You watch as the black locks fall to the floor, and hate them for taking even this insignificant part of you, when they’re already taking your blood for their amusement.

Then they leave you sitting there stark naked, telling you to wait for your stylist. The moment they’re gone, you grab for the flimsy robe you’d been wearing before, draping it awkwardly across your lap. Probably your stylist will tell you to remove it, but sitting around without a stitch on your body makes you feel vulnerable and stupid. You might as well try to preserve what little dignity you have left.

You jump when she enters, almost sliding off your perch on the strange padded bench you’re sitting on. She’s a tall woman – you look down and notice that the heels of her golden sandals aren’t even that high, and she just naturally towers over you like that. Her curvaceous frame is encased in a flowing emerald green dress, and two glittering stones of the same colour are attached to her left eyebrow. Other than that and a couple of tasteful ear studs you can’t see any body modifications on her at all, no metal in unexpected places or exotic inlays, and her almost pitch black skin appears completely unmarked. Her equally dark hair is obviously not dyed, and held back with a simple golden ring, so that it looks like a halo around her head. There’s a dusting of golden powder on her cheek bones, a thin line of green eyeliner tracing the shape of her eyes, and her lips are painted a deep red. All in all she looks powerful and beautiful, without ever crossing the line into the purely freakish, like so many of her colleagues.

She smiles a little at your scrutiny, almost as if she can tell what you’re thinking. “Please stand up. I promise this won’t take too long.” Like most Capitol people she overdoes her enunciation of every word, but in a less nasal and obnoxious manner at least. Mostly she makes you think of your school teacher reading aloud out of some textbook.

That’s really not a mental image you want to have as you have to stand in front of her naked and have her scrutinize your body, however. You can only imagine what your classmates would say if they saw you now, with this beautiful woman sizing you up for whatever costume she’s about to force you into… except of course most of them would avert their eyes and say nothing. As stupid as the situation is, it’s still part of the Games, still part of your impending death.

You try not to fidget or squirm, try not to attempt to cover yourself up, because you figure it would only make you look even more foolish. There’s something about the cool professionalism of her gaze that is less uncomfortable than you’d expect, however. Like your father asking a patient to undress so he can examine them. She’s here to help you, and she doesn’t demand that you be naked for any other reason than that, has no interest in either leering or making fun of you.

“There, that’s enough. Please, why don’t you put on your robe?”

You’re only too happy to oblige. Once you’re finally covered and she waves at you to follow her into the next room, you give her a sidelong glance, trying to place her face among the menagerie of Capitol people who surround the Games like flies around carrion. Nothing. “You’re new, aren’t you?” you demand bluntly. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Oh.” She looks surprised, and then a little embarrassed. “I never introduced myself, did I? I’m so sorry, that was rude of me. You are right, I am indeed very new to this. My name is Kanaya. Pleased to meet you, Karkat.”

“Are you really?” you demand caustically, unable to hold in either your skepticism or your defensiveness. You sit down heavily on the immaculate white sofa, pulling on the robe to make sure you’re still covered. “This can’t be a good start for you, right? Congrats, you get the most hopeless tributes that Twelve has managed to send so far, and that’s saying something. I mean, fuck, Terezi probably has a better chance of winning than I do, but hey, I guess you’re stuck with me.”

She smiles slightly, sitting down on a chair opposite you and crossing her long legs. “If I disliked challenges, I imagine I would be sticking to embroidering samplers at home. I am not interested in an easy life, and there are certainly more productive things I could be doing with my time than waste my talent on those who already have every advantage.” She laces her fingers together, and you notice her nails are painted black, with little white swirls in the middle that almost look like chickweed flowers. “As for your chances, I am not going to make any assumptions before I’ve gotten to know you better. But I have to say, absolutely nothing about you so far strikes me as the character traits of someone prepared to just lie down and give up. So you will have a hard time convincing me that you’re hopeless.”

You squirm slightly, feeling heat rising on your cheeks. Somehow it seems cruel, the way people keep telling you to keep pretending you have a chance, to keep fighting. They _have_ to know it’s hopeless, right? Meenah, Terezi, and now Kanaya… why do they even bother? Well, at least in the case of the latter, it’s practically her job to root for you, and in the case of the former, she’s stark raving insane. Terezi has nothing to win, but somehow you can still feel her grip on your wrist as she lowered your defiant hand out of view, her fingers cold, like a band of white ice covering your brown skin.

“Are you hungry, perhaps? There’s lunch,” Kanaya says, as if tactfully backing off the subject of your chances of survival. You might argue about that forever, but the existence of lunch is something definite, and breakfast suddenly seems like a very long time ago. You nod mutely, your shoulders relaxing slightly, and she leans forward and presses a button on the table. You assume it will summon another attendant, but instead the food appears as if by magic from inside the table. You try not to stare, just reach out and take your bowl and fork and start shoveling food into your mouth, swearing to yourself that if she remarks on your manners you will shove your face in the grain and stew and eat it as a pig would.

But she’s silent, daintily eating her portion of the delicious food. Despite feeling a bit queasy still, you make sure to eat it all, because every little bit of weight you manage to gain before the Games will help, will buy you time and strength between hard-won meals, survival skills or no. If possible, you need to be eating non-stop until they fly you off to the Arena, which honestly doesn’t seem like such a terrible concept, considering the food here in the Capitol.

“So,” she says casually, dipping a piece of fluffy white bread in the deliciously spiced creamy sauce, “about your costume… I absolutely refuse to dress you as a coal miner, I want to make that very clear. The whole thing is such a despicable mess of pageantry and pantomime without me outright putting you in some skimpy costume that will at best draw a few laughs, and at worst will mean you’re simply ignored. I honestly trust that you have no complaints?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’d honestly prefer if you sent me out there completely fucking naked, if that was your brilliant plan.”

She covers her mouth to hold in a laugh. “Well, unless that’s something you really want, I think perhaps... How do you feel about red?”

You think about the petals of poppies, about winter sunsets, about maple leaves in the autumn. You try very hard not to think about sticky red spilling onto the ground, a brown rabbit weeping blood from where your mother pierced its eye, as panicked tears blurred your vision and your breathing came too fast, making the world seem far away and your face feel numb. You’d already seen plenty of people bleed on your father’s kitchen table, and somehow that had never frightened you, but that was because they came to your home to be fixed. Your father would work tirelessly, and even if he didn’t always succeed, he would do his best to take away the pain and, when all else failed, hold their hand and stay there with them as they passed. But out in the forest, kneeling in front of a dying animal, the assumption was that you were supposed to sit there and let that precious blood flow and do nothing to stop it. The small creature was twitching; you knew there was no actual saving anyone or anything with an arrow through its eye socket, that its life was almost gone anyway, but the impossibility of holding on even so, of trying to help, was too much. You reached out and cradled it to your chest, weeping loudly, and that’s all you can remember before you blacked out.

Your mother had tried again and again, with the same result. She could never get you used to the sight of blood which you had no means of stopping. Not on the TV screen as the tributes died one by one, not in the forest.

You realize you’ve fallen silent, staring at your clenched hands much like an animal who has spotted a predator, a hunter. Kanaya is giving you what seems to be a genuinely concerned look, getting up and hesitantly sitting down next to you before you can tell her that she’s fine. She puts her hand on your shoulder, and you exhale shakily, trying to remember how to breathe.

“I- I don’t mind red. _Fuck_. Sorry. It’s just been… a lot…”

“Of course.” Her voice is soft, and so are her eyes. “Please, just allow me to take it from here, and I promise you that you’re in good hands. We’ll see if we can’t turn these Games on their head yet.” Her kindness, her concern really do seem heartfelt, and it’s such a relief to feel as if someone is looking out for you without having to guess too hard at what her motivations might be, you feel as if you could cry. She takes your hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “I cannot imagine what it is you’re facing, or what this place must seem like to you – I think if I were you, I’d hate us. I’m not saying I’m any better than anyone else here, but I really do want to help you.” She smiles a bit ruefully. “I know asking you to trust me is a bit of a tall order, but perhaps just for today…?”

“Okay,” you say tiredly, and somehow you even manage to smile back at her. “For today. Don’t fuck it up.” A moment’s pause, and you feel like you’ve managed to pull yourself together again. “Also please don’t actually send me out there naked. I don’t think that would impress anyone.”

Despite her fairly impressive poker face, her black eyes glitter with silent laughter. “I’m not in a position to judge,” she says smoothly. “But let’s try things my way first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right! i struggled a bit bc obviously i try to keep to hunger games canon and follow the schedule of the first day faithfully, but at the same time it's not like i want to just rewrite every scene of the book because i'm using COMPLETELY DIFFERENT CHARACTERS so that would be weird and also get boring. i hope that i managed to balance it at least somewhat. /finger guns


	12. Ignition point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parade that everyone will remember, a face you know you won't be able to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys, I got caught up in a lot of paperwork in december (Immigration Hell is real lmfao) and then it honestly just took me a while to put this chapter together. hopefully it's not too much of a mess despite this. love y'all <3  
the order is rose > rose > dave

Allowing your make-up team to add the finishing touches to your deep plum lips, you subsequently brush them away and step directly out onto the platform which Gamemakers occupy during the Tribute Parade. Stalling until the very last minute means you don’t have to make small talk and suck up to your seniors, and with the electrified state you find your nerves in, that’s probably for the best. You decide to forgive yourself for both the excitement and anxiety you’re experiencing, telling yourself that it’s only your fourth Games after all, and with the intense amount of energy you’ve been putting into building the foundations of the rebellion lately, it’s no wonder if you’re feeling a bit… stretched. Practically twanging. Being a Gamemaker is supposed to be a full-time occupation after all; you cynically suspect that keeping you endlessly busy is Scratch’s way of keeping ambitious minds such as yours from plotting against him.

Well, no matter. You doubt you’ll ever be too busy for that.

The downsides of stalling are obvious, since there are only so many seats, so you’re not given any choice at all in who you sit next to. Ardata smiles at you as you take your seat, the skin around her eyes creasing ever so slightly, distorting her strange tattoo in the process. Honestly it’s not even the weirdest one you’ve ever seen, but you certainly wonder why anyone would put an exact replica of her own eye right beneath the original. Knowing her, the reason is no doubt unpleasant somehow, and you haven’t the faintest inclination to actually ask her about it.

“Oh, there you are. It would’ve been dreadful if you would’ve missed something, wouldn’t it?” Is the insectoid impression her long and feathered eyelashes make intentional? Hard to tell. You do know for a fact that she puts some effort into her generally sinister vibe, and you suppose you have to admire the craftsmanship at the very least. “It’s always so interesting to watch their faces as their new playthings arrive,” she says, gesturing languidly at the buzzing crowds. “The adulation, the bloodlust, the fellowship, the pity...” She sighs, pressing a pale hand to the thick velvet brocade covering her chest. The summer evening air is balmy, and there are great big braziers on each side of the platform, lending an extra note of spiced warmth to the air; yet she doesn’t seem to be suffering in her heavy robes and cloak. She’s the kind of person who would put on an extra sweater in a furnace. Her bosom heaves dramatically, and she makes a big show of blinking non-existent tears out of her eyes. “It’s beautiful, Rose.”

“Fascinating, certainly,” you reply dryly, and you’re glad that your persona allows you to distance yourself from her words, shrug them off before they can dig their icy barbs under your skin and freeze you solid with impotent rage. You dissect her affected mannerisms, pin them down like insects, and that way nothing she does can harm you. The character you’ve written, the role you play, is that of one who takes no pleasure in the things she breaks, but merely views it as necessary components in her own ascent, because you learned a long time ago that the best lies contain some truth at their hearts. The spring in the clockwork must function as a part of the mechanism, and the hand on the strings must be as alike the puppet as possible. Beneath that fine veneer of carefully honed indifference, you can allow whatever darkness you want to fester, and you can also allow yourself to be vulnerable, to regret, to hurt for those who are hurting because of you. “I’m sorry, Ardata, I’m afraid I am completely unencumbered by poetry even at the best of times.” You flash her an impenetrable smile. “Not everyone can be an artist.”

She makes a moue of displeasure. “We’re not just mere technicians, Rose. You have to-” Thankfully, the roar of the crowd abruptly rises to a pitch, and her attention is snatched away from you in that instant. You do not have it in you to argue the artistry of the Games in this moment.

The tributes from One are as always dazzling – quite literally at the moment. Seems like their stylist has attached little black, glittering jewels to their skin in mesmerizing patterns, and sown the same stones into the twisted and knotted black silk which has been coaxed into covering what needs to be covered in front and to flow like a waterfall behind them. The girl in particular looks flawless in this ensamble, her glossy midnight hair and tawny skin complementing it perfectly; the boy, while handsome, looks rather pale and dull in comparison.

The District Two tributes are glittering too, albeit in a myriad different colours. The use of jewels is always a hotly contended issue between the stylists of District One and Two, since the latter mines the raw material, and the latter cuts and fashions it into jewelry. Occasionally that leads to situations like this, where both sets of tributes end up stealing in each others’ thunder, and neither set really stands out. You notice that the boy from two looks disdainful and dour, as if he’s repulsed by his gaudy finery. You suppose you cannot blame him; the whole ceremony is after all an exercise in studied tastelessness and not-so-subtle humiliation.

The tributes from Three are dressed in robes decorated with intricate clockwork patterns, and absolutely heinous cogwheel headdresses; Four is donning outfits made entirely of strings of pearls. You stifle a yawn as you watch the poor children from Five, confined within what looks like armour made from solar panels, lift their arms but not quite manage to wave properly. Their costumes are clearly unbearably uncomfortable.

The parade is always timed so that darkness begins to fall slightly before it starts, and by now the sky has deepened to a rich, velvety blue, only lit by a golden glow along the very rim beyond the city square and the President’s mansion. Even with the lights that line the road, most of the costumes seem slightly muted by the falling darkness, and it’s the job of every stylist to try to counteract this by making each outfit as remarkable or, failing that, at least as outlandish as possible. All while of course keeping with the theme. You smile in anticipation, even as you note the chrome-decorated helmets from Six and, unsurprisingly, the usual uninspired take on trees from Seven. Isn’t that stylist going to die anytime soon? It would be a kindness to the tributes if someone could arrange that. Perhaps someone ought to lock her in a room with Vriska and some blunt instruments.

Whatever you might think of Ardata, she does have one thing right. It’s far more interesting during the parade to watch the way the crowd reacts. So far there haven’t been many surprises, except possibly more amusement when Two passed than what is common. A tribute so very obviously hating his costume and allowing it to show is fairly unusual, since that sort of reaction only tends to make one an object of even greater ridicule. There are the usual cries of adulation and praise to favorites of individual members of the audience, and you make a note of whenever anyone particularly influential seems to pay attention to a tribute. One would think this part of your occupation, but in fact your interest is far closer associated with your much more dangerous hobby, as you sometimes like to think of the rebellion.

Knowing people’s preferences make them easier to maneuver, gives you an edge.

As a Gamemaker, on the other hand, your duty is of course to the Games themselves, not to whoever has the deepest pockets or most friends; as corrupt as the Games naturally are, a key component in keeping them from getting predictable is to not simply allow the whims of the more powerful Capitol citizens to dictate it. They can affect the outcome as sponsors, but they will never directly sway the hand of the Gamemakers. You are bound simply to create entertainment that will please and terrify by numbers, to maintain the sway of the Capitol over the districts and of the President over the Capitol. The crowd has a voice in the Games, whether it is screaming for more blood or simply… well, just screaming.

An excited hush is descending from the gates the tributes are arriving from and spreading rapidly outwards, and you smile to yourself, leaning back in your seat even as the rest of your colleagues lean forward to see what’s caught the crowd’s attention. You wait. Ardata is craning her neck next to you, her curtain of glossy dark hair snaking across her velvet cloak, and as she breathes out a fluttery sigh of awe, you know that Kanaya has succeeded. All attention has been snatched away from the previous tributes, and you might possibly be the only one who watches eight to eleven pass at all. But you feel you might as well, since you have a bit more of an idea of what is coming. Not that Kanaya hadn’t been attractively myopic when you tried to get more details out of her, claiming not to want to spoil the spectacle for you, although you suspect she also thought you were being a little bit too smug about wheedling the fire idea out of you in the first place.

You have to admit, once the tributes from Twelve glide into view, that despite your previous knowledge, the designs still manage to take your breath away. The simple crimson smocks and unadorned, loose black hair has to be considered a bold and risky move, because they certainly accentuate the fact that the boy and the girl are mere children... but that doesn’t actually matter. The sheer fabrics which stream behind them like a comet’s tail, in flagrant defiance of gravity, are firstly so mesmerizing that it’s hard to tear your eyes away. Transparent, shimmering, shifting in every shade from fresh blood to rich gold, even the faintest hint of blue on the very edge, but predominantly a vibrant sunset orange. If you know anything about fire at all, the impression is that the two are made of fire descending from the sky, rather than rising toward it. Kanaya and Tavros have also managed to treat the fabric in some manner which produces a steady warm glow, making the small shapes in the chariot look positively ethereal, their fragility somehow only enhancing the otherworldly feeling, as if they are ghosts or gods who have chosen the shapes of children to pass their judgment on the world. As they pass you notice the touch of carmine on their lips, the gold brushed on their cheekbones and brows, the simple lines of kohl enhancing the boy’s eyes, completing the vaguely inhuman look. The girl’s eyes are hidden behind glasses; not the ratty old ones she arrived in, but glossy red ones in sharp angles which highlight the impish lines of her face.

It’s all so very ingenious. And, you know, also dangerously rebellious, even if it’s subtle.

They children are holding hands, too. You wonder if they were instructed to do that, or if they decided to on their own accord. It’s a nice touch, whatever the reason. The boy’s face is locked in a defiant scowl, chin raised, shoulders set, and because you are very good at your job, it’s easy to see the fear that lurks beneath. But he seems to override it somehow, moment by moment; the hand that clutches the girl’s is steady enough to moor a ship to, and despite the distance between you, you’re somehow certain that his grip is quite gentle. The girl is wearing her madcap grin, her head turning in the direction of anyone in the audience who manages to raise their voice above the din, singling them out with the lizardlike stare contained in the reflections across blank glass surfaces which hide her eyes. You note with approval that she manages to silence quite a few audience members that way. Presumably they’re unnerved at her finding them so readily despite being unable to see them, and you can only imagine that this will make quite an impression on them.

Considering what you know, you’re certain she will have more in store for them.

* * *

Kanaya had been a… surprise, but certainly not an unpleasant one. She hadn’t been working for you when she specifically requested to be assigned to District Twelve, hadn’t been contacted by any of the people with suitable interests which you have assigned to keep an eye on such matters. Honestly, since you’ve already got reliable eyes on the Twelve tributes, it hadn’t exactly been a priority to secure the stylists as well. It’s just one district, no more or less important than the others, and as it stands it’s more imperative to get people with rebel sympathies out on the ground in the actual districts, and if possible get as many new victors on your side as you can. Rebel mentors and escorts, that’s what has to take precedence in your busy schedule, then the stylists, and very much last comes the prep teams. You had in fact carefully sounded Tavros for his sympathies, but while you suspected he could be talked around to it, he wasn’t exactly firebrand material. It took so much effort to wrangle suitable people into positions of any kind of influence in the higher districts, you had dismissed him as someone who would be fairly easy to sway if needed, but he didn’t hold a prevenient position in your mind at the time.

Then Kanaya wandered unexpectedly onto the stage, young and talented, already talked about in the Capitol, definitely expected to knock some less popular stylist down a couple of districts. And she asked, politely, to be allowed to do Twelve. Most took it as humility, a sign of her being aware of her position as a newcomer, and that she was simply trying to play it safe. But if anyone who wore gowns like that was interested in playing anything safe, you were going to painfully attempt to masticate an entire bolt of wine red silk, tasteful sequins and all. Oh, and maybe you also preferred to think that someone so devastatingly attractive wasn’t possessed of some breed of trite affectation of bashfulness. You couldn’t imagine anything that would cool your interest faster that performative self-abnegation. Ah, the mental gymnastics you were willing to preform in the service of wishful thinking.

Whether your motivations were as pure as you’d like or not, you decided to confront her and see if she could be as useful as you hoped, all under the pretense of casual networking. She was easy enough to happen across in a more secluded corner of a private party, tapping away at a small handheld device with a light frown marring her brow. It quickly turned into a scowl of frustration and a muttered, “Why does it _do_ that?” She rubbed her finger ineffectually against the holographic screen, which rippled and then remained every bit as frozen as before.

“Maryam,” you said pleasantly, causing her to almost drop the device, but after an unsettled split second she smartly snapped it shut and slipped it into her clutch. The cool look she treated you to certainly seemed like reason enough to feel hopeful. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now.”

“Truly? I have to admit that’s a surprise,” she murmured, head tilted as she considered you. “What could a Gamemaker possibly want with a humble stylist?” You liked the acerbic lilt to her tone there, the wry twist to her mouth. Her lips were painted a beautiful aqua blue for the night, the same color that adorned her nails, and was brushed with a light hand along the crease of her eyelids. “I would consider our need for involvement to be almost entirely coincidental, and most certainly second-hand… but of course I wouldn’t dream of questioning your judgment.”

She reaches out her hand, her long and powerful fingers finding a cocktail glass where she’d secured it behind a potted plant in the adjacent window. Even by herself with no one else around, that’s a clever move at a party like this, if she felt the need to put her drink down for longer than a second. If someone powerful enough managed to slip something in your drink, you were expected to bear it in silence and not make a scene. She’s not from a very influential family, and she was at the party in the capacity of a mere stylist, which made her a curiosity, a valuable commodity in certain respects, but ultimately not a threat to anyone who might want to aquire what’s not given.

For all of the brutality out in the districts, the open oppression, it often strikes you how absolutely bestial the rules of your home are, when you actual think about it. So who wouldn’t lash out against what’s caging you, regardless of how fine your prison, and the austerity that presumably waits beyond it? You really cannot bring yourself to grasp the complacency of most of your fellows.

The woman in front of you was a different matter, however. There was gold leaf mixed into the blood red cocktail in her hand, and as she sipped on it, a small flake attached itself to her lips and clung intimately to her skin. You considered it unreasonably distracting.

You pondered your answer carefully. It would be reckless of you to show your hand immediately, because all you really had was conjecture about her personality and her reaction to you, which you would freely admit might be tainted by your attraction. But then again, testing her was going to be easy enough. You make a habit of being both bold and perfectly assured of your own judgment, for better or worse, and you were absolutely confident in your ability to either find what you were looking for, or to at least avoid arousing her suspicions if you did not. You smiled, a closely calculated little lift to the corners of your mouth, one slightly higher than the other, and you followed it up with lifting an eyebrow at her like the visual equivalent of a formal challenge issued. “Usually that is so. But I have to consider you an exception to this rule, due to your rather unique manner of securing your new position. You asked for Twelve, yes?” You said it lightly, but you also leaned in slightly, putting your hand on her wrist. “We have some… concerns-”

She was really good. She didn’t widen her eyes in alarm or tense her shoulders, nothing so obvious. But for a moment her pupils dilated – since they’re only very slightly darker than her irises, you were only able to notice this because you were standing so close. And because you were holding her wrist the way you were, you also felt her pulse jump. It was the immediate, carefully controlled fear reaction of someone who was perfectly aware that she had something to hide, not the gradual anxiety of an innocent who was just confronted with an equally vague and uncalled for accusation.

Wonderful.

“-which most other Capitol citizens do not share. My associates and I, that is.” You leaned back, giving her wrist a friendly pat and letting it go. “That’s why I would like to ask you to work for me, in a certain capacity.”

“I am afraid I am not quite following you,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “Could you perhaps elaborate further?” She was holding off on her reaction, which you certainly cannot blame her for, and it was actually particularly clever of her, when you thought deeper about it. Not only was she protecting herself, but in case it was some sort of political power play of yours that you were trying to get her involved with, she was no doubt determined to find out as much as possible about the situation, and would potentially agree in order to leverage the situation to her own advantage. Smart, prudent _and_ dangerous. All your favorite flavours, so to speak.

“I’m not looking for followers,” you said, demurring slightly, watching with carefully concealed delight as her eyebrows and jaw grew more taut in face of your vague answer. “I just find myself in need of likeminded people with certain aspirations, my dear.” The obvious condescension actually cause her upper lip to draw back slightly, allowing a bright white incisor to flash a brief and very definite message for a moment. As much as you enjoyed admiring the raw strength beneath her polished manners, you allowed yourself to soften, not wishing to alienate her. People, after all, were not a game. It was just hard to remember at times. You smiled disarmingly, raking your fingers slowly through the soft down of curls at your temples. “My apologies, I’m used to talking in riddles for the sake of my own safety, and that of many others.”

She smiled back, even if her eyes were still a bit distant, her posture wary. “Is that so? I’m not sure the riddles can necessarily be called self-defense, if they’re usually that infuriating.”

You laughed, and found yourself startled by the genuine warmth within the sound. “You might be on to something. Then let me be more frank.” On a whim, you reached up and gently tugged on her hand holding her drink. This time her eyes did widen, but as if in a trance she acquiesced, watching your face in confusion as you tilted the glass slightly, leaning in to take a sip. Her eyes flitted as you licked a bead of liquid off your lower lip; tart, sweet, cold and sharp. You wished you could’ve put a hand on her dark cheek to check if she was blushing. “I wish to break the Capitol. I’m not alone. And I think that you...” You stepped in closer still, the fabric of her sparkling white dress brushing against your bare leg. “...you’re just like me.”

And just like that, she was yours.

* * *

They don’t exactly want just anyone inside the Training Center, and certainly not loose victors who technically have no business there. But you manage to find Rose after the parade and walk with her, skipping ahead of her to walk backwards, gesticulating emphatically with your hands as you regale her with some of your favorite anecdotes. When you arrive by the big glass doors, she taps a card at the reader and then sticks her thumb into something that she says will match her blood to the profile the card is registered to. The doors slide open, and you keep walking in front of her with your back to the guards you pass, telling her a joke you’re pretty sure she’s already heard, but fuck, you’re improvising here, and the important thing is that you keep talking. Lucky for you that you’re particularly talented in that area.

The guards don’t stop you, don’t question Rose about your presence, because who wants to deny a Gamemaker some pretty and pleasant company during her busiest time of the year? You stay close by her side as she walks, making her way as directly as possible toward the opposite side of the building. Of course you’ve been here before, once as a tribute and once as a mentor, but you had paid very little attention to anything except getting to the elevators that would take you to the floor designated for Two’s entourage. Now you realize that there’s an entire separate set of elevators toward the back, behind matte black metal doors which are clearly not designed to draw the eye the way the others are. “Where do these go?” you demand as Rose once again taps her card and scans her thumb, pressing the button which lights up with dim violet light in response.

“Down,” she replies simply. “Not to the gymnasium where you do group training, deeper than that. It’s where we work during the year. There’s also the medical facilities, as you may recall, and… other places. Places not even I have access to.” A wry little smile. Now that she mentions it, you do recall walking down this corridor before, presumably after having stepped out of the elevators, but your memories of it are vague. You hadn’t been in fantastic mental shape at the time, although your lack of attentiveness at the time still feels like a failure. Nothing you can do about that, it’s how you were trained. Failure was always painful.

Rose lifts her hand to your cheek and gives it a couple of quick, gentle pats, accompanied with her inscrutable little smile. “This is as far as you can come with me. Why don’t you see if you can get a closer look at as many of the tributes as you can before someone catches you and shows you out? Since you seemed to think that it’d be hard for you to get information out of your guardian, I mean.”

The back of your throat tastes sour and you grimace. “Still don’t know why the fuck you felt it was so important for us to convince Bro to do the damn mentoring thing again. The inscrutable bastard isn’t exactly like Jake’s mentor or whatever, and if you want the honest truth, I have no damn clue what he’ll do now that he has no vested interest in the outcome of the Games.” You look down, lower your voice to a mutter. “I’ve got no clue why he agreed just like that either. Thought for sure he was just gonna say ‘nah’ and go off and hang with his puppets, and that’s the last thing we’d ever hear about that.”

Rose shrugs, but when you raise your gaze to her face again, she’s frowning slightly. “I admit I suspected it would be even harder for you and Dirk to get any information out of any of the other victors from Two. You don’t exactly seem hugely popular among them.” You say nothing, hands curling into fists at your side. “Since I don’t have either of you as mentors this year, it just seemed like the most practical solution. I’m sorry.”

You don’t like her apologizing to you, don’t like the pity she so obviously is trying to conceal from you. You know she’s related to the surgeon who patched you up after your Games, remember Roxy’s fingers flitting across your unnaturally smooth arm as sadness pulled on the lines around their eyes. Their brittle little smile as they said, “There. Good as new.” How much had they told Rose about the marks they had erased from your body, the history of pain picked out on a defenseless canvass, across the span of an aching childhood?

“Whatever,” you say, offering her your most nonchalant shrug. “It’s just going to be a pain in the ass to get him to talk, that’s all. But fine, I’ll see if I can spy on the kids when they get up from the stables.” You nod your head just as a bell chimes. “Your elevator’s here.” And you noted that it took a really long time to do so, and also that there are no numbers above the doors to tell you their whereabouts or how long you can expect to wait. Just how deep does the Training Center go?

She studies your face carefully for a moment, and then nods and flashes you another small smile. “Very well. See you around.”

You walk back through the winding corridors, toward where, to the best of your knowledge, the elevators that will take the tributes upstairs should be. Beyond the great big lobby, this place is a bit of a maze, and you suspect that’s very intentional. They don’t want tributes to wander off, don’t want any interaction between them and the staff that move silently here. You see a couple of avoxes, and feel an unexpected pang. You wish you could go looking for John. But if he still waits on the tributes of Two, he’s most likely already in their apartment, waiting for them to arrive. And you’ve got a job to do.

“-can’t wait to get this sticky shit off my face!”

Oh fuck, someone’s coming, and they don’t sound like anyone from the Capitol to you. You look around, consider finding somewhere out of view to observe him, but the corridor behind you has only one door, and you can see another of those card readers next to it.

“It’s really not that much, darling, Kanaya told us to be _way_ more restrained than we usually- Hold on, we’ve lost the others and I don’t actually think that this is the right…!”

But though the woman’s voice is loud and penetrating, somehow she’s still drowned out. “-these fucking drapes are fucking everywhere and I- just-” You turn around, thinking to walk past quickly and not acknowledge them. But at that moment they both appear around the corner, and you catch only a brief glimpse of the tall, short-haired woman dressed in an actual cloud of feathers, before the boy next to her gets his foot caught in one of the flowing orange veils he’s grappling with, flails his arms in a futile attempt to regain his balance, and goes cannoning into you. He’s not big, but as you try to catch him and right him, he instinctively tries to free himself from your grasp, the fabric ensnaring his leg gets caught up on your shoe, and when he flails again he tugs it straight out from under you. You both go down in a cloud of very slowly settling, still glowing veils.

He really very light where he lies squarely on top of your chest, glaring at you from a couple of inches away. His eyes are the kind of deep brown that almost looks maroon in certain light – such as the orange light of your tiny fabric cave. His carmine lipstick has smeared a little bit, a stark red gash across golden brown skin. You can feel his breath on your lips.

“Watch where you’re going, fuckass.”

He had very clearly been the one who fell over you, but you decide not to argue semantics right at this moment. Instead you flash him a charming grin, nodding at him and putting one arms behind your head so that you’re marginally more comfortable. “Karkat Vantas, right? I clearly couldn’t have hoped to make a better first impression than this. Don’t worry if you don’t feel quite as cool about it yet, it comes with practice. Anyway, nice to meet you.”

He blinks, and then looks flustered. He tries to tug his leg free, but the fabric trap is made from some surprisingly sturdy material. Grinding his teeth together, he tries a couple more times, as you stay placidly in place, before he seems to give up. There’s a small giggle somewhere above you, followed by a throat clearing, as if the woman is trying very hard to make it seem like she was just coughing. Karkat takes a deep breath, appearing to be beseeching whatever powers there be to give him the strength to be civil, or maybe just to not completely lose his shit. “Stelsa. Could you _please_ untangle our fucking feet so I can get off this clown?”

“Oh! Right on it, dear, just one moment...” You feel strong, competent hands start to unwind the textile trapping your new floor chilling buddy, gently teasing at whatever corner got stuck on your shoes until it comes loose. Then she starts to gather up the rest of the fabric, quickly removing the walls of your by now strangely intimate little tent, unearthing the both of you and grabbing a solid hold of the veils so they won’t keep getting in the way. Karkat lets out the angriest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard, practically a snort, and inches his way off your body. You sit up, unhurriedly righting your clothes as he bounces to his feet, and then you reach out your hand to him, raising one eyebrow.

“Help a guy up?”

He’s fascinating. All of his emotions are so vivid across his face, as if their sheer volume of them prevents him from covering anything up. He’s flustered again, confused, because obviously you could just get to your feet yourself. He’s also suspicious, wary of you. You remind yourself that you’re a victor from District Two, and as such it’s not strange if he views you as the enemy. You also remind yourself that this boy… he’s going to die. There’s no way in hell that he’ll come out of that Arena. He’s clearly too inexperienced, too unprepared, too small, too emotional, too much of a child still to ever have a chance.

As if to underscore that, he reaches out his hand to you, and you can tell that the action is instinctive; that helping others is his natural, unthinking response. He’d acted tough, and he’s still scowling at you, but you’d bet anything that whatever hardships he’s faced in life, they do not include having to do others harm, to fight because it’s the only option he had. To strike a brother who tries his best not to show his pain to spare you. To brush the black feathers off your hands with coarse snow until they’re red and stinging. To prepare yourself, because if you don’t know how to kill, if you don’t learn how to harden yourself-

You take his hand, and he pulls you to your feet. The woman who was with him laughs and starts fussing with his hair immediately, so you have to assume that she’s from his prep team. “Well, look at you, already networking like a champion! That’s the spirit, love, you can’t have too many friends here in the Capitol you know, it’s simply imperative that you learn how to loosen up and maybe even smile a little more, it won’t hurt I promise.”

You squeeze his hand briefly and then let it slide from your grasp. “Like I said, nice to meet you. I’m Dave Strider.”

He rolls his eyes. “What? Really? I could never have guessed. I assumed there were even more dipshits in douchey shades stupid haircuts running around the Capitol, as if three of you chucklefucks wasn’t enough.”

Stelsa tuts and elbows Karkat’s ribs in a manner that is neither very ladylike or subtle. “Didn’t you hear what I _just _said?”

You just spread your arms in a disarming gesture and raise your eyebrows. “Nah, he’s right, I’m pretty much fucking unmistakable for a guy who happens to have an identical twin. It’s fair.” You step forward, nudging his arm gently as you pass him. “See you around, Karkat.”

“Wh- Hey, what the fuck are you doing here anyway?” he demands, swirling around and, to your great surprise, starting to follow you.

“Just followed a friend of mine inside,” you say noncommittally. “Hey, want me to show you where the elevators are? Because let me tell you, you’re kinda lost.”

“As I _told_ you,” Stelsa huffs, her sensible low heels making clicking sounds against the floor as she follows you, still holding onto Karkat’s comet tail of fabric.

Karkat looks like he’s about to insult you, but then he grimaces in apparent defeat, and nods in reply. “Sure. Everyone else was standing around like idiots fucking _gushing_ about these clothes that you literally can’t even walk in, and I was going to fucking lose it if I couldn’t get them off me and shower some of this bullshit off my face. So I thought I’d just...”

“I mean, yeah, after my tribute parade, there wasn’t an inch of me that wasn’t covered in that crusty white dust and itching like mad. My prep team sprayed that shit on me, and it got… well, let’s just say I was finding white powder in awkward places for a couple of days.”

It’s not quite a smile, but his face relaxes a little bit as you commiserate with his woes. “Well, shit, at least there’s that.” He looks down at his black-painted nails. “What the fuck do I do with these, though?”

“Oh don’t worry about those, we’ll remove that tomorrow morning,” Stelsa assures him.

“Yeah, they’re great at removing stuff like that. Just don’t ask them to actually wash anything out of your asscrack. I know uncultivated district slobs like us have no idea about shit like that, but apparently it’s considered impolite.”

That actually gets you a very brief huff of laughter, and even as his face settles back into the more familiar lines of his perma-scowl, his eyes seem more lively. “Fuck, imagine how embarrassing it would be for me if someone thought I was rude.”

You grin back at him. “Yeah, imagine.”

“There you are! Please don’t run off like that, we were worried you’d gotten lost.” His escort sounds worried. The girl from his district has strategically placed herself behind her stylist’s wheelchair in an effort to avoid the rest of the prep staff, all of whom are still chattering excitedly among themselves. Fair enough, they all basically swept the parade. The other stylist appears to have been talking to Twelve’s mentor, but now they look up, one face showing gentle concern, the other giving away nothing. The latter’s eyes immediately dart to you, narrowing slightly.

“Nah, I just gave him a brief tour, that’s all,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We ran into each other and thought we’d pass the time until the rest of you turned up.”

Several of the faces in front of you register acute doubt, but you don’t give anyone a chance to air those misgivings. You grasp Karkat’s hand again, giving it a shake, looking into his eyes. Probably for the last time. “Like I said earlier… see you around, okay?”

“Sure.” He looks away. He knows as well as you do that you’re unlikely to meet again. “I’ll hit you up if I’m desperate for more fucking etiquette lessons.”

“Shit yes.” You nod at the rest of his entourage, then realize that’s maybe a bit rude if one of the people present is blind, so you add, “Bye. Sorry, can’t stick around. Much to do. Oh, and congratulations on the parade. No one’s going to be talking about anyone else.”

That’s it. You’ve got to get out of here. Fuck finding some place to lurk and spying on the rest of them, this is enough. You can’t deal with more of this. Not tonight. For all the training you’ve had, the people you’ve killed, somehow you’ve never truly learned how to shut this kind of thing out. Maybe Dirk can do it, but not you. You looked into Karkat’s eyes, you touched his hand, and now he’s no longer a name snatched from a long string of tragic sacrifices, another tolling of the cannon and a shimmering portrait in the sky waiting to happen. He’s a boy, just a couple of years younger than you, a district boy who wants to go home to his family. He’s a person, because you allowed him to be, because you let yourself think of him that way. The place on your cheek where Rose patted you suddenly burns like it’s infected. That’s the hand of one of his future murderers that just touched you. Whatever her motivations, whatever the reasons, whatever great plans you’re all making, it doesn’t change that one simple truth.

She will help kill that boy.

You feel sick. On your way out, you pass the entourage from Two. Jack Noir is shredding his gaudy clothes and leaving them in ragged tatters on the floor behind him. Bro doesn’t look at you as he walks past. You can’t breathe. You’ve got an appointment tonight, you’ve got to pull yourself together, but you _can’t breathe._

You manage to get out of the doors and into a car before everything comes apart for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH so i tried to, you know, make the whole thing a bit different, while still sticking to the same general themes since... yanno, some things are just HG canon and you gotta roll with it. hopefully it worked :P


	13. Voiceless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are things you have no words for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh lord this is an unholy hour to be awake, but 'tis done. time for sleep now.
> 
> the order is karkat > terezi

The apartment designated for Twelve soars high above the ground, the top floor of the tallest building you’ve ever been in, although certainly not the tallest one in the Capitol. You find yourself glued to the window after your shower, still dressed in a fluffy white robe, watching the lights of cars moving far below you, the scurrying people, the bright colours that even dusk can’t quite wash out. It’s different than the hills and valleys back home, where the ground slopes away evenly even when you’re right at the crest, so that you never feel the height the way you do here. It’s making your head spin a bit, and yet you stay where you are, your breath painting strange ghostly figures against the smooth glass, like the mists which would come and leave so quickly on summer evenings.

Conjuring that image in your mind, you can practically smell the wet grass, the dew-heavy flowers, and as always, a hint of the heavy, gritty scent of coal. You can feel the cooler air and the touch of moisture, you can hear the birds, and the laughter from inside your house. You can see-

You’re brought back to the here and now by the feeling of warm water running down your cheeks, and you realize you’re crying again. You hurriedly wipe your cheeks clean, turn away from the window, and at the third attempt you manage to program the wardrobe to give you clothes you might actually consider wearing. The parade costume is still crumpled on the floor, glowing dimly, and you assume someone will come and pick it up later. You nudge it with your foot. As impossible as it had been to try to walk in, it hadn’t exactly been made for that, and you have to admit that for its intended purpose it had exceeded all expectation by far. You’d seen the screens as you traveled toward the city circle, seen the way the cameras couldn’t seem to get enough of you and Terezi, and you couldn’t say you blamed them. The fire-born child creatures in the chariot hadn’t looked like you, hadn’t looked like anyone mortal at all. You had no idea what it was that made the fabric billow out like that behind you, as if there was no weight to it at all, flickering exactly like tongues of flame, but the combined effect was sheer genius. At least when it came to stylists, it seemed you were in good hands.

You’d honestly been completely speechless when you first saw Terezi in her outfit, shifting experimentally, running her fingers across the front of it to get a feel for the fit. You… You really don’t know what it is you feel about her, not in that moment and not in general; not at all, in fact. A couple of years ago, if you’d been forced on pain of death to admit the truth, you would’ve said that you had a crush on her, or maybe even that you were in love. You’d watched her since you were both children, watched her from afar and in secret, trying to figure her out. She was the smartest person you’d ever met, she was unpredictable, she was inscrutable. She laughed louder than anyone else in your class, she would get into fights with bullies and actually _win_, she made friends easily but seemed to always keep them at arm’s length.

Now? All of those things are still true, and you don’t feel as if you understand her better at all. Do you still have a crush on her? You’re really not certain you’d put it like that. More than anything, even when you used to write her name and doodle hearts around it in class, you’d always wished that you could be her friend. You’d pretend loftily that it was because you were kindred spirits, because you both couldn’t tolerate injustice and wouldn’t put up with bullshit, but the truth had a lot more to do with admiration, with her being exactly the kind of person you wished you were. Someone who could back up their ideals with something more than just empty words and the ability to have the absolute shit beaten out of them. Someone who people were actually wary of crossing.

Regardless of your strange and conflicting feelings, you’re not sure you ever thought she was _p__retty_ as such. Interesting to look at, sure, but in a jagged and stark way, not soft or dainty like the more popular girls at school. And it’s not like that had suddenly changed then and there; if anything, even with the touches of make-up and with her hair evened out into silky tresses, she looked more unapproachable and wild than ever. But dressed in clothes that glowed like fire and climbing precariously into the chariot with Kanaya’s help, she was so beautiful that it kind of hurt, like staring directly into the roaring furnaces that keep the mine shafts ventilated at home.

Wait, does thinking she’s beautiful mean you’re still in love? Or the fact that you took her hand and held it for the entire chariot ride? You don’t think so. It’s more complicated than that. You’re afraid it always will be – bearing in mind that ‘always’ is a stupidly abstract word when you probably aren’t even going to be alive in a week.

You fold up these complicated, pointless thoughts and stuff them as far back into your mind as you can reach, and then you leave your room and tiptoe down the corridor. You’re not sure why you’re being so quiet, other than that so is the rest of the apartment. It doesn’t surprise you to find your escort and your mentor talking to each other in hushed voices, because it’s happened before. You suppose that over the years in their respective jobs, it makes sense for them to have become friends, but there’s something surreptitious about how they’ll have these apparently quite tense exchanges every time everyone else is out of the room.

“-t maybe he simply works for her? You’re always so suspicious.”

“That’s the reason I’m still alive, Fifi. And yeah, maybe he’s one of her puppets, or maybe he’s someone else’s. I don’t like him singling out Karkat and getting him on his own as soon as he arrived here, s’all I’m saying.”

“I’m sure it was just a chance meeting!”

“Well, I’m sure it wasn’t. What the fuck was he even doing here, he ain’t no mentor?”

“Why would anyone care enough to spy on us?” Feferi shoots back, her whisper climbing slightly in pitch as it grows more heated. “It’s not like we’re important. All we’re doing is observing.”

Meenah sends her a warning look, and then darts her eyes around the room, as if trying to indicate that they don’t know who’s listening. “He’s a victor from Two. There are plenty of people who aren’t above using victors they have in their pockets to gather information and cheat. Trust me.”

“Oh, does it matter?” Feferi slumps into a chair, sighing sadly. “I don’t think anything that the other tributes will use against them is exactly a secret.”

“We’ll see,” Meenah replies curtly, and you get the feeling there’s something they’re carefully steering the conversation away from, something a lot more loaded.

You think back to yours and Dave Strider’s meeting, as embarrassing as the whole affair had been. Had you said something you shouldn’t? No. You’d complained about your clothes and make-up, and that was pretty much it. He was the one who had come pretty close to saying something inappropriate, what with that sarcastic comment on how ignorant you both clearly were, being from the districts. But nothing of any real importance had passed between you, that wasn’t why the whole exchange had left you rattled. There’s just something about him, you guess. Something that got under your skin. You assume that something is called ‘being a smug piece of shit’, and ignore how you can still feel the ghost of the warmth of his hand around yours.

Draped on his chest and with his shades knocked slightly askew, you’d seen exactly how unnatural his irises looked, completely uniform, slightly bigger than normal, and bright fucking red. Why in the name of all the slag in your district had he decided to have them modified like that when the surgeons repaired them? He’s no Capitol idiot, so he must surely realize how freakish they look, right? At least the color suits him, but still...

He’d smelled of apples. You’d been close enough to count his freckles. You wonder if his hair is as soft as it looked,

Yeah, you’d definitely just found him condescending and annoying, and absolutely nothing else.

Stomping into the living room, you break up the unofficial conference between Meenah and Feferi and pretend like you hadn’t heard them. “Is it time for dinner yet? There’s only so much time I can spend contemplating my navel.”

Feferi looks up, her bright smile instantly returning as if someone had flicked a switch. She clearly isn’t faking it, which is somehow weirder than if she were. “I was just about to come get you! Come on, everyone else is already in the dining room.”

So why were the two of them here, then? Well obviously to argue about whatever it was they did or didn’t suspect Dave Strider of, but they don’t know you know that, so you make a point of giving them and odd look before following them in. You know you’re not the best actor out there by even the most generously proportioned chalk, but even you can accomplish something that basic.

The two stylists and Terezi are indeed waiting, engaged in yet another conversation about the opening ceremonies and the costumes. Understandable, certainly, since the stylists are joining you for dinner tonight, and sweeping away the audience like you did is such an unexpected turn of fortune. But you nonetheless wish you could talk about literally anything else. The thing you’re trying not to think about is in fact how fucking awful and terrifying it was to have so many people looking at you all at once, chanting your name and flinging flowers in your wake. You’d almost take another reaping rather than go through that shit again. Almost.

“-was, uh, mostly Kanaya’s idea in fact. She was the one who- who came up with the fire thing, and how to make the costumes glow like that and… pretty much everything.” Tavros grins sheepishly. He’s an awkward young man with broad shoulders and his hair cut into what you presume is some sort of Capitol fashion, shaved at the sides but not in the middle, all spiky and dyed in a gradient from gold to deep red, like a sunset. Possibly to echo the palette of your costumes? His stutter takes the hard, nasal edges off his Capitol accent, and so far he’s been nothing but enthusiastic and sociable. Despite not being as new as Kanaya, having a few more years as a stylist for Twelve under his belt, you can’t actually recall seeing him on TV even once, even when they interviewed the woman who preceded Kanaya. It’s not hard to guess why. Even if the stutter was already a ticket to obscurity in its own right, the wheelchair would’ve done it all on its own. The only reason why you imagine that he’s allowed to keep working is because he’s assigned to the least interesting district there is.

“That is simply not true,” Kanaya protests earnestly, taking her place next to you at the table. “I was completely at a loss as to what fabric to use, how to make it behave the way I wanted it to, and you wouldn’t have looked even half as amazing if Tavros hadn’t saved me.”

“Well, mm, I’m not sure I would put it like that, but I- I guess I did sort of come up with a pretty great solution there,” Tavros admits with a shy grin. “I just thought that, um, that if we wanted the fabric to billow out as- as much as possible, and- and stay in the air as you moved, maybe we should, uh, look into the kind of fabric that they make parachutes from.”

You immediately think of the silver ones from the Games, the ones that glide silently through the air to deliver gifts of necessities, of medicines, of the very small things that can mean the difference between life and death. They’d more or less dressed you in those? You’re not sure how you feel about that, if it’s supposed to be a bad premonition or a good one. Kanaya tilts her head and looks at you, apparently reading something in your reaction that makes her add, “It wasn’t exactly like the ones in the arena, or even like the ones the Peacekeepers occasionally use themselves. We just used the same kind of fibers to create a different sort of fabric, one that would be more translucent and light, and which would allow the substance that made it glow to permeate it better.”

“I thought, maybe, that it’d also be sort of a good thing for me, uh, emotionally to work with that kind of fabric to- to make something good and beautiful,” Tavros admits. “Because of my, well, mm, my somewhat unfortunate past relationship with parachutes.”

He proceeds, in fits and starts, to tell the tale of how when he was younger, he’d signed up to the specific Peacekeeper forces that usually piloted the hover crafts and provided assistance from the air wherever necessary. He’d always dreamed of flying. He looks down when he says it, as if he understands how frivolous that must sound to you, as a reason to become part of the deadly Capitol forces which oppress people like you. But there was what he calls an incident while parachuting from a hovercraft – apparently they usually don’t fly high enough for it to be safe, and there wasn’t any time to gain altitude. His parachute didn’t open fully in time, and he hit a factory rooftop fast enough to snap his spine like a twig.

He fiddles with the garnish on his appetizer, and you read between the lines to find the words he’s carefully negotiated around. The lack of care for his life displayed by whoever gave that order. The suggestion that something had been happening in a district that was deemed more important even than the life of a Capitol citizen – which suggests to you that it was seen as a threat to the Capitol as a whole. It makes you think of the things your father frequently says when he’s sure no one is listening, about how the Capitol prevail through the isolation of the districts, because every insurrection can be met with the full force of their might. If it was only possible for all districts to rebel at once, they wouldn’t know where to start, they’d be divided just like you are…

Even if he doesn’t accompany his words with signs, as he usually does, your mom has learned to recognize his body language when he starts on that particular subject. His shoulders held rigid, his arms crossed, his face growing haughty with zeal. At this point in his harangue she usually reaches out and places a gentle finger across his lips. Even in the privacy of your own home, you can never be absolutely certain that you’re safe. He’ll try to argue halfheartedly, but more often than not he relents, and goes to bed while claiming a headache, as your mother shrugs and sighs. Once, she’d turned to you and signed, “Being helpless hurts him so.”

You don’t want to think about what your parents must be feeling now. You don’t want to be angry with Tavros for having been a Peacekeeper, not when it’s far too easy to imagine the terror of falling, unchecked, with the inevitable end looming ever larger. If nothing else, it’s not too far off from your own situation.

A brief, awkward silence descends as you wait for the main course. “Well, maybe we ought to work out tomorrow’s strategy in a bit more detail?” Feferi suggests. You slam the butt of the fork you’d been nervously spinning between your fingers into the table.

“Yes, because nothing is better for my appetite than having to strategize around my dubious survival. For fuck’s sake, can’t we at least attempt some fucking small talk while we eat our fucking dinner?”

Feferi flinches at every single ‘fuck’, sighing. “You only had to ask nicely, you know! There’s no reason to swear at every other word, is there? Not to mention, that’s really a habit you should shake by the time your interview rolls around, or you’ll risk being rendered completely incomprehensible as the audio staff attempts to bleep out the profanities.”

You scowl, and Meenah sighs. “She’s got a point. It’s some qualified horseshit, of course, but you gotta make the most of the minutes you’ve got. If they censor half of what you say, that means you got half the time everyone else got.” She shrugs. “Not saying you can’t swear at all, but save it for when it’s gonna make some kind of an impression. Otherwise you’re just offending the touchier audience members.”

“Yeah, _god forbid_ I say something offensive while discussing the actual goddamn _blood sports_ I’m about to participate in – oh, forgive me, the _gosh darn_ blood sports.”

You fall into sullen silence, and everyone save Terezi exchange looks before delicately picking up the conversation without you. Terezi appears to be ignoring everyone in favour of the food at this point, and you decide to follow suit. But because you’re still angry, but not so angry you want to plunge the table into an argument, you resolve to shovel the food into your mouth with a spoon, while you use the free one to sign the most heinous expressions your mother has ever taught you. Once you run out of those, you start finger spelling every single bad word you don’t actually have a sign for.

That’s when you hear a shocked intake of breath from across the table, right behind Terezi. You look up, and notice that one of the people in white clothes, the ones you’d unthinkingly dismissed as Capitol servants, can’t be more than maybe ten years old. He’s watching you with huge, dark hazel eyes. When you raise an eyebrow at him, he hesitantly raises his hands and discreetly signs at you.

“That was not a very polite word.”

You almost laugh. “It wasn’t supposed to be,” you sign back. You chew your lip for a moment, then add: “Aren’t you a bit too young to work here?”

He frowns in return, looking confused and hesitant. The young woman next to him has clearly noticed your conversation by now, but is pretending not to, her eyes fixed on what appears to be a point far beyond this room. “I’m an-” Then the boy uses a sign you’ve never seen before. Before that point, it had been slightly hard to parse his phrasing, because he obviously has the sign version of a Capitol accent. But this word is completely alien. Negative voice?

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“A-v-o-x,” he spells out. Seeing your blank, bewildered expression, he adds, “It’s a punishment. We are servants who don’t speak.”

“Punishment for what?” you sign without thinking, horrified. Everyone else by the table has noticed what’s happening now, except maybe Terezi. Meenah frowns. Feferi is anxiously arranging the food on her plate. Tavros looks dejected, and you could swear that under her composed exterior, Kanaya is harboring a steel edge of anger.

The boy uses another sign that you can’t quite place, and he has to clarify it for you. Treason. It’s a different one than the one you have seen your mother use a couple of times. “If you say the wrong thing too many times, you become an Avox. Even if you’re a child.”

“You’re not Deaf?”

“No.” The boy’s hands momentarily lower, fluttering at his sides, and then he speaks again. “I didn’t learn to speak until I was six, so I learned some sign. It made it easier, when I became an Avox. Anyway, all the things I wanted to talk about before were… bad. Treason. So I think it’s better like this.” He looks down. “But... it hurt. The surgery.”

You forcefully shove your plate away from yourself, too sick suddenly to even look at the food. A surgery that stops treasonous talk... by making sure the perpetrator will never speak again at all. You suppose that’s how the Capitol weeds out those within its walls who cannot close their eyes to its injustice. Even children. The boy watches you solemnly, a skinny figure in pristine white robes, practically shining in contrast with his dark skin and hair. He looks sad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

With a monstrous effort of will, you pull yourself together. “It’s alright,” you assure him, managing to muster a smile. It’s probably the first time you smile in the Capitol, and it’s very likely to be the last one. “What’s your name?”

A cautious smile touches his lips, and you see a brief flash of white teeth. “They call me-” The sign that follows confuses you; you’ve seen it before, but you’re not sure it means the same here as back home.

“The Mayor?” you spell back.

“Yes!”

“Is that really your name?”

He frowns, looking away. “It’s my name now. My old name was a voice name, and no one is allowed to talk to us unless they’re ordering us. So I want to forget it.” Another smile, more feeble this time, like a shadow melting away in stark noonlight. “But no one told me that it’s forbidden to sign to me, so I think it’s alright if you do.”

“I’ll be careful,” you reassure him. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Mayor. My name is Karkat.” You use your personal sign, which makes him laugh since it’s a variation of the sign for ‘loud’, and then spell it out for good measure.

“Yes, I remember. From your Reaping.” You notice how that word is exactly the same here as it is at home. Right, of course the Avoxes have to watch the Games just like everyone else does.

“That’s enough,” Meenah says gruffly, but you notice a certain edge missing from her voice. “Don’t wanna get no one in trouble, aight?”

You nod, putting your hands in your lap. A moment later, perhaps hoping for something to numb and soothe you, you reach for still full glass of wine and take an experimental sip. You grimace as the dry, tart flavour of it floods your mouth, followed by a strange heaviness that makes you feel like you’re ingesting something you really shouldn’t. Like rotten fruit or an unpleasant medicine. People drink this willingly?

Terezi has cocked her head to the side, probably trying to figure out what’s going on, and while you feel bad for leaving her out of what’s going on, you really don’t feel like explaining it right now. Especially not where someone might be listening in and might decide to get the silent child in front of you in trouble. So you grit your teeth instead, watching as two of the white-clad figures set some kind of extravagant cake on fire before serving it, and all you can really do is feel grateful that no one tries to get you to eat. The presence of the Avoxes, the realities of their existence, the carefully blank look on the Mayor’s face as he made the sign for ‘surgery’… it has all done irreparable damage to your appetite, and you know that no matter how delicious, you won’t have room for dessert. Or rather, you imagine that if you tried to eat, it wouldn’t stay down for long, and you refuse to waste food. You have to be careful with whatever slivers of yourself that you can manage to hold onto in this place, as they remake you to be more palatable to the audience, mold you into an engaging character or an empty statement. That’s why you turn around in the door on the way to the room with the TV, giving the Mayor a brief thumbs up, and you feel warmed by the way he grins at you. It had crossed your mind that they’d put him in your apartment because both you and Terezi have younger siblings, as a way of taunting you. But whatever cruelty the Capitol may have intended, you intend to take it as a reminder instead. A reminder of who you are.

* * *

The wind that rolls over you as you stand on the roof of the Training Center has a slight bite to it, and you could swear that you smell distant snow on it as well. Or is that just your imagination, because you know that the Capitol is surrounded by tall mountains? Hard to tell. It’s refreshing, anyway, after the stuffy tension that presides downstairs. The distant sounds of the Capitol below and the more adjacent tinkling of wind chimes is also preferable to sitting around with the rest of them around the TV, listening to everyone making loose commentary about the other costumes during the parade, and oohing in awe over whatever the fuck you and Karkat had looked like. It’s not like anyone holds it against you that the magic is more than a bit lost on you, and they’d been kind enough to describe what was happening on the screen, but that’s not the whole story behind why you’re feeling so snappish and distant.

The reason why you have no idea what to make of that ride has less to do with missing out on the highly visual spectacle for obvious reasons. It’s just that up until that point, Karkat had appeared completely uninterested in doing anything for the benefit of the cameras, and you’d expected to have to keep prodding him to get him playing along. You’d rather enjoyed it, in a way, being the one forcing him to play nice, keeping him guessing on what your motives might be. So maybe it’s a little petty to feel peeved when he suddenly turned the tables on you? Whatever. You’re going to be as peeved as you like anyway.

You just hadn’t expected it at all when he suddenly took your hand, just as the rumbling acclaim of the crowd rose to a deafening roar as they caught sight of you. Your first impulse had been to tear it away, but you instantly considered how that would be parsed by the watchers, and it was impossible to imagine that you wouldn’t come off as rattled and skittish. A little girl outmaneuvered by a simple gesture of kindness, perhaps even bashful to be seen holding hands with boy. Well, you’d be dead before you gave anyone that kind of satisfaction. So you held on steadily, trying not to take note of the strength in his fingers or the warmth of his skin as you focused on unnerving as many audience members as possible.

His grip grew harder and harder, and you could feel him shaking slightly, apparently deeply uncomfortable to be the focus of so many. From the sound of it, he’d always avoided large gatherings of people at school as well, and you wonder if it’s because he doesn’t like being looked at, even if that thought is a bit abstract to you. You just know that Latula has expressed something similar from time to time, and she often talks big to make up for a fragile inner self that shivers with insecurity, much like you’re pretty sure Karkat does.

At the gentle turn which indicated that you’d entered the City Circle his grip was practically cutting off all circulation in your fingers, and he seemed to suddenly realize as much. His grip grew apologetically slack, and you could tell he was about to withdraw his hand, when for some reason you redoubled your grip, holding on to him. “No you don’t,” you hissed. “I feel like I’m about to fall out of this damn thing any moment now.” It was the truth. You really didn’t enjoy the way the chariot shook underneath you, the lack of control over where you were going, the inability to know what was ahead and how fast you were heading toward it. Even though you understood fully that it would’ve been of no use, you hated that you hadn’t been allowed to bring your cane. It was making you feel sick, and his grip on your hand had helped a bit. But you certainly hadn’t intended to tell him as much. “If I go, I’m taking you with me,” you added, hoping that would take the vulnerable edge of your words, but not sure you mightn’t be deluding yourself on that point.

From the way his hand twitched, he’d turned to look at you, perhaps to check if you were serious. Then he very gently squeezed your hand in his, encouraging and steady. “Hey, sounds like a suitable way to go,” was his only reply, and he held your hand right until the chariots stopped and your team rushed toward you to help you down.

As the parade had played on the TV downstairs, Meenah had complimented Karkat on the idea to hold hands, saying it was brilliantly rebellious and a much more subtle and effective ‘fuck you’ than simply flipping the Capitol off. It’s easy to understand why. Most other tributes must be trying as hard as possible not to acknowledge their district partner. No matter if they knew them or not, if they were a neighbour, friend or distant acquaintance, or simply a stranger from the same kind of home, any admission of recognition was the same as facing up to that one was either plotting to kill them, or let someone else do the dirty deed. That’s bad enough when it’s simply another child, another slave of the Capitol, but within the districts there still exists a friable semblance of fellow feeling, of loyalty. No one wishes to expose it as the pipe dream it really is, at the end of the day.

So Karkat’s gesture was undoubtedly one of defiance as far as the audience was concerned, and they’d eaten it up. What you can’t figure out is if that was what he’d meant or not. He’d just muttered in embarrassment when praised, giving no indication of whether he’d considered it an act of rebellion or not, or if he’d been aware of how it would be parsed before that point. Just like you hadn’t been able to figure out why he’d given you that bundle of food, or why he’d never taken credit for his kindness, leaving you to stew in resentment over a debt you weren’t allowed to repay. He’s such a straightforward creature, usually wearing every emotion in his voice and his actions, and still somehow you fail to understand him when it really matters. That’s not really an ideal state of things when you’re going into an arena with him.

You detach yourself from the ledge around the building and turn away. You’ve already played with the force field meant to stop you from jumping, confirming that it does indeed seem impenetrable. Not that you were planning to end your life here. How would that make a difference? The Capitol won’t get the pleasure of killing you before you’ve resisted with every last shred of your being.

You walk toward the scent of flowers and the sound of chimes, your cane ringing out across the flat surface of the roof as you make your way to the small garden. As soon as you approach it, you hear his breathing, and that surprises you. You hadn’t heard him come up. For such a noisy person, Karkat Vantas occasionally moves like a shadow. As if he’s trying to obliterate every sign of himself.

“So, what was that during dinner, anyway?” you demand casually, refusing to let on that he’d taken you unawares. You stand silent as he explains what an Avox is, frowning despite yourself, listening to the echoes of pain in his voice getting picked up by the ghostly chiming around you both, lifting toward the great big emptiness above. “I was wondering. They swallow a lot more often than normal people, and it sounds strange when they do. They must do something to their tongues.”

Karkat actually shivers so hard that you can hear it. “Yeah.”

You can tell that he doesn’t want to discuss it any further, and as fun as it is to mess with him, you take no pleasure in pointless unkindness. You understand. Latula’s voice wasn’t the only one that had cried out in naked distress as you’d stood on the platform in front of your silent district. Karkat has a little sister too.

That does remind you of something, however. “Oh, speaking of things I’m pretty sure I missed… after I volunteered, Feferi asked everyone to clap, but they stayed silent.” You’re honestly not certain what you’d expected, but for the first time in your life, you had felt a fierce pang of genuine district pride. You grapple with that feeling, with the unexpected sense of belonging you’d had just as you were about to be torn from your home forever. “Something else was happening, wasn’t it? I could hear people moving, and Feferi was acting weird.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know how to reply at first, and you hear him shifting awkwardly, before he suddenly gets up and walks closer. “Is it okay if I touch you? I don’t know how else to show you.”

You hesitate, but you don’t actually think he has the balls to try to hurt you, to take the punishment for such a trespass. You don’t think he wants to hurt you. “Fine. As long as you’re a gentleman about it, of course.”

He chokes a bit in response, but the spluttering and embarrassed arguing you’re half expecting doesn’t come. Instead he takes your hand in his again, gently moving your fingers until the three middle ones are extended, the thumb and pinky folded. Hesitating only momentarily, he then lifts your hand up to your face, pressing your fingers to your lips before straightening your arm in a salute. “Everyone was doing it. For you.” he says, subdued. “Do you know what it means?”

Do you know what it means? How can you reply honestly? You know what it’s meant to mean, what you’d been told in hushed whispers by your father as your mother swung from the gallows, the creaking of the rope becoming one with the anguish in his voice. You know what you’d meant as you stood in front of the Justice Building, holding a cheap pot metal medal in honor of your dead father, listening to the sobs of Porrim Vantas and a dozen or so other women and men, listening to your sister choking on her grief, but the tears just wouldn’t come. You know what it means when you lose a family member, a spouse, a friend; when the silent rock beneath your feet claims their voices for good. You know what it means when it’s the only thing that can be done at the end of all words, the only expression left for love and loss and the inevitability of both.

You don’t know what it means when your district extends the same gesture to you, when a whole crowd stands silent in the face of the inhumane, allowing the gesture to not only be a tribute to the fallen, but the symbol of their rage. The rage in your mother’s voice as she sang, in Dirk Strider’s as he spoke about his Games, in Meenah’s as she told you to survive, in Karkat’s just now, as he spoke of the Avoxes. Theirs, Twelve’s, yours.

Do you know what it means?

You have no answer for him. So you free yourself from his grasp and turn around, walking as quickly as you can toward the door that leads to the stairs. He doesn’t follow you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a v talky + feelingsy chapter. more action to follow.


	14. Stagecraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scene is set, but the script you're reading is yours alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this took WAY too long to write. i hope that since i'm back on my ADHD meds at last, i'll be less scattered in the future... not to mention, omg, we're getting close to the actual games once again. would you look at that. pls don't look at the word count and try to calculate how long it'll take for most of the main characters to actually start interacting shhhh i've got everything under control.
> 
> character order is terezi > rose > dirk

The morning before you enter the training center the first time, Meenah had repeated her instructions from the train to you and Karkat, with some additions. She wanted you to get a feel for different objects that could replace your cane, but to not give away at any point that you know how to use it to fight, and to focus as soon as possible on survival skills. With Karkat it’s obviously the other way around, he needs to focus on learning basic hand-to-hand combat and not reveal how good he is at identifying plants or climbing. “Listen,” she’d said, “what you’re good at is what you’re good at, and you ain’t gonna get much better during just three days of training. It’s a waste of time. So don’t tip your hand, got it? What others don’t know you can do will give you an edge, and you need every damn edge you’ve got.”

Her last instruction was surprising, however. She said she understood that you’d have to be at different stations to make good use of your time there, but she still wanted you to cooperate whenever possible, and you had to promise to eat lunch together. That didn’t sit entirely right with you, but you didn’t say anything about it, didn’t protest. You understand what game you’re meant to be playing, that Meenah is running with your linked hands during the Opening Ceremonies, with the seed of rebellion that Karkat had sown, presenting a united front when it shouldn’t be possible. It’s not a bad strategy, certainly, because it’ll keep your opponents guessing – isn’t that what you’ve been trying to achieve anyway?

The problem isn’t the pretense as such; you have no qualms about playing nice with an enemy if you need to. No, the problem is that it’s Karkat. Your debt sits like a sharp rock in between your ribs, twinging every time you move or breathe, and you doubt that you’ll ever have a chance to properly repay it now. This makes your relationship far too complicated for your liking already, and pretending to be his friend isn’t going to help.

What does he think about it? He’d protested feebly when Meenah told you what she was expecting of you, but had folded into sullen silence when your mentor stabbed one of her utensils hard into the dining table and informed him that this wasn’t negotiable. Now he stands next to you in the elevator, close to one of the walls that feel cold and smooth like glass, so presumably that means he can see through them as you descend. You don’t appreciate the sensation of sinking and rising without any control so far, but from his awed little gasp the first time you rode the elevator, maybe it’s more enjoyable for the sighted.

You take a step toward the door when the elevator slows to a stop, but Karkat’s hand is suddenly on your elbow, not exactly holding you back so much as getting your attention. A moment later, it becomes clear why, as the door opens only to let in voices you can’t quite place. So this is not your actual destination?

“Hey, don’t space out!” There’s the sound of a brusque impact, and then footsteps stumbling forward. Light footsteps, no heavier than Latula’s. A child’s voice gasps next to you, but doesn’t protest. Heavier footfalls follow, and the physical sensation of someone taking up a lot of space makes you take one smart step backwards. “Twelve, right?” A female voice, deep and harsh. “Sorry, the doors opened in the lobby and this little shit wandered out. We had to wait for the next one.” She grinds out a sigh which almost sounds like a growl. “I’m Konyyl. The brat’s Karako.”

Karako makes no sound to acknowledge this, no sound at all. In fact, now that he’s in the elevator, you can hardly figure out where he is, that’s how quiet he is. No shuffling, no fidgeting, nothing you’d expect from the one twelve-year-old tribute in this year’s batch. Only faint, light breaths which could be coming from anywhere. As if he’s a ghost. You can’t deny you feel haunted, because his footsteps as he stumbled remind you of your little sister walking in a spreading sea of silence, the way her feet rang against the ground. Once you’d shoved your way out of the crowd, it had been easy to hone in on the sound, to rush forward with no thoughts in your head, no air in your lungs, no future left except the immediate, overwhelming imperative to protect. Her gasp as she noticed you, and as your fingers closed around her arm you could feel that she was already tensing as if to ward you off, to stop what you were going to do. Too late. You listened to her frantic footsteps as she tried to catch herself, her forceful exhalation as she fell, her spindly body hitting the paved ground with barely a sound. A small hiss of pain – she’d probably scraped up her hands a bit at the impact. But that wasn’t why she stopped breathing, that wasn’t what overcame her in a rush of dread, and truth to be told it probably hardly registered at all. She couldn’t stop you from saying the words, couldn’t get up in time to try to hold you back, couldn’t change what you’d known you had to do the moment her name was called.

“Karkat,” he mutters behind you, and you snap back into the elevator, hurriedly forcing the flurry of memories down. “Not sure what’s up with her, but she’s Terezi.”

You pick up the frayed strings of the present, make yourself smile. You feel behind yourself to find the glass wall, easing your body back until you lean against it.

“Yeah, the one who volunteered,” Konyyl grunts. There’s a tense beat, and her voice drops a bit, as if she’s not sure she should be asking. “Are you really blind?”

“You aren’t?” you shoot back nonchalantly, feeling the elevator resume its plunge.

“...Uh. No?” She sounds confused. You grin.

“Then you can see for yourself.” Before she can ask what you mean, you tilt your glasses up and open your eyes wide. She’s pretty good, you admit, and only lets out a strangled breath. Some people have told you that your eyes look creepy, using meaningless words like ‘milky’ and ‘blank’ to describe them, as if you’re supposed to know what they mean by that. But Meenah’s words are still echoing in your ears. Find any edge and use it. Everyone is going to know that you’re blind anyway, so show them it doesn’t bother you. Keep them guessing.

“Fuck,” the other girl mutters as you put your glasses back on your nose. Does she feel bad about asking, or just unnerved by what she just saw? Hard to say.

Then someone is suddenly grasping hold of your shirt, and you instinctively flick your cane at the intrusion, drawing a wordless little yelp from Karako, a strangely musical sound. But it doesn’t seem to deter him for long, and he leans in close to you, close enough that you can feel him teetering a bit as he reaches up and curiously taps your glasses. A bit taller than Latula, you think, before sternly reminding yourself that comparisons like that aren’t going to help you.

Then there’s the sound of movement, and Karako is yanked away. “Don’t mind him,” Konyyl says gruffly, as you hear Karako squirming against her grip. “He doesn’t seem to know how to talk. I’m not sure he’s right in the head.”

In return, the child loudly blows a raspberry at her, and as the elevator suddenly stops and the doors slide open, he appears to take the opportunity to wriggle free and scurry off, velvety footfalls quickly blending into the ambient noise of a large, enclosed space. It sounds bigger than the hall of the Justice Building back home, bigger than the lobby upstairs, with voices somehow both muffled and amplified by the space. “See ya,” Konyyl says and stomps off, her direction easy to pick out. Karkat lets out an explosive breath next to you, clearly shaken. Once again you’re reminded that he isn’t even remotely prepared for an arena that expects you to kill, and he doesn’t even seem to be making an effort to harden himself. It was obvious yesterday, from the way he talked about the Avox child he’d befriended, and once again today, being faced with just two of his fellow tributes. It annoys you, thinking of how helpless he’s going to be if he doesn’t do something about that fast. That soft heart of his is going to get him killed.

“Okay, new rule,” you declare, walking forward.

“What the fuck do you mean? Who said you get to make any rules?”

“I did. From now on, we don’t talk to the others unless we have to, got it? No one’s going to make any kind of alliances with us, so if they’re talking, we’re going to have to assume there’s something they want.”

“Excuse me? And what the fuck was that in the elevator, then? In case you hadn’t noticed, that was _you_ talking, not me.”

You shrug. “Well, that’s because it wasn’t a rule then. It is now.” You reach out, finding him easily since he’s being so loud, and squeeze his elbow until you can feel him trying to flinch away from the pain. “But we’re not arguing about this, are we?” you say sweetly. “Because we’re following Meenah’s instructions and being the very bestest of friends while we’re here. So just do as I say.”

You can feel how tense he is, and he must be seething. But somehow he manages to wrangle his temper enough to huff out, “Fine.” He changes direction slightly, and you follow along, your hand on his arm in a more companionable grip now. “I think there’s some kind of introduction about to start. Come on.”

You hold onto him as the instructor explains that there will be killers far deadlier and more insidious than a bunch of terrified kids at play in the arena, as if you’re not already far too aware. It’s like balancing an equation. Surviving exposure and hunger is necessary to have a chance to beat the other tributes, and the death of the other tributes is in the end the only thing which will save you from exposure and hunger. You aren’t Karkat, who you would guess could probably survive on his own for months in a forest if he had to, so you’re going to have to be more aggressive than that. But neither are you a career tribute, trained with one aim, to fight and kill other humans; you have only ever fought to protect yourself, and being underestimated is your hugest advantage. Against a large number of enemies, that advantage will quickly dwindle away to nothing. So you will have to resort to stealth and trickery if you want to go home.

You listen to the other tributes around you, trying to guess who is who. Konyyl is easy to pick out, now that you know the sound of her breathing, standing toward the back of the loose crowd you’re in. The heavier treads and less nervous movements in front of you clearly belong to the career tributes. The disgusted sound made by someone on the far right of them identifies him as the boy from Two, and you take note of the harsh laughter of one of the career girls. Someone to your left is tapping their hand against their leg, the movement quick and arrhythmic, and the sound makes the air thrum with barely restrained fear. You could also swear you heard someone humming, sweet and melodious as a lark, and the sound seems to come from somewhere above your head.

You give yourself a new mission. You’re going to have to learn all of these voices, who they belong to, and the nervous habits and small tics that go with them, what their different tones tell you about what they’re trying not to reveal. You will have to rely completely on the sound of the cannons in the arena, won’t have the advantage of knowing exactly who has died through the portraits in the sky, so being able to tell the tributes you come across apart will be vital for devising any sort of strategy. You list what you already know, what your team had narrated to you while you had listened to the reapings and what you had picked up while milling around before the entrance ceremony. The best time to fill this list out is right now, while the other tributes train and especially at lunchtime. So it’ll be vital to drag Karkat as close to as many of them as possible while you eat, and at the same time make sure that he doesn’t give too much away to them.

Well. At least you’ve always enjoyed a challenge.

There are more distant voices too, and you twist your head around as you attempt to locate them. They appear to be centered behind you, close to the ceiling, and as you focus they appear to be accompanied by the sounds of clinking glasses, clattering tableware, the occasional low scraping of moving furniture. That must be the gallery from which the Gamemakers are observing you, taking note of your skills in order to start planning the challenges they will force upon you, working out how they can best be used to entertain the audience. Of course they preside above your heads, never having to interact with their intended victims, but privy to your every movement as you try to prepare yourself to fight for your lives, or at least to not have to die slowly. You bare your teeth for a moment, grinding them hard enough to ache over how close fate brought Latula to stand here next to Karkat instead; how the boy next to you saved her life, and now you’re expected to kill him for sport. In your chest the flame grows hotter, brighter. Above you, you once again hear a child’s voice singing, and now you can tell it must be Karako.

You lean sideways until your lips are practically brushing Karkat’s ear, his hair tickling your nose, and you think to yourself that it’s weird that he no longer smells like lavender and mint, just as you dig your fingers into his arm to stop him from shaking you off. He’s as still and stiff as a board, and you cackle. You know what you want to do. “Before you go learn something about how to not get your ass kicked, I’ve got an idea I’d like to try out. You’ll help me, right?”

* * *

You cross your legs, feeling your tights snag a little on the heavy fabric of your robes. You remember when you started making plans with Roxy, plotting the shape of a future which you hoped one day to drive like a wedge into the heart of Panem itself. When you laid out your as yet half-formed idea of how to accomplish this, explaining that the most effective way of reaching your goal had to be infiltrating the very heart of the Games with the intention of controlling them to manipulate the mood in the districts, Roxy had suddenly laughed and elbowed you in the side. You’d expected anxiety, reluctance, perhaps even a touch of revulsion at your readiness to join the proud murderers tasked with puppeteering your corrupt nation. Instead they were grinning at you as if you’d made a rather good joke, bright pink eyes lighting up even more at your obvious confusion.

“It’s the robes, isn’t it?” Roxy demanded, voice bubbling with a futile attempt to restrain their mirth. “Admit it, you just want those pretty purple wizard robes the Gamemakers wear!”

Well, you have to admit that you do enjoy the drama of wearing them, for all that they’re somewhat impractical and certainly a bit too warm under the intense lighting in the training center, even though you’d made sure to sit down right by one of the vents of the air conditioning. But since overseeing the training is an official Gamemaker task, the robes aren’t optional. You glance around at your colleagues, shamelessly projecting their self-importance, playing up the nonchalant way they chat and enjoy their refreshments, as if their attention isn’t raptly fixed on the tributes. Even as they wander around the observation gallery, you know, they will maintain this pretense of being too superior, too exalted to care what happens below. As if that isn’t the one function you fill here. As if your precious power doesn’t hang by a string forged by the suffering of these children. As if a single one of you matters at all as anything except glorified butchers.

A smooth movement at the periphery of your vision tells you that someone is sitting down in the comfortable armchair next to yours. You do not turn your head, only swirl the mineral water around the crystal flute in your hand as your gaze follows the path of the child climbing across the domed ceiling above. He’s using the grid of light fixtures as handholds, occasionally leaping like a frog from one to the next, clearly comfortable with the rather alarming height. For someone so small, avoiding the other children seems like a healthy priority, and his skills are impressive. You wonder how many of the other Gamemakers have noticed him up there, moving like a nimble shadow.

“Remind me again...” Kurloz Makara’s voice is deep and deceptively gentle, smooth and warm. He never has to raise it much to get people to listen, not even while he’s actively directing an ongoing event in the arena. It’s impossible to imagine the Head Gamemaker shouting. “Was it your idea to have the current arena altered two years ago?”

You smile a bit wryly, shaking your head. “No, sir. I’ve been very involved in facilitating the changes, but I’m afraid I cannot flatter my ego with such a stroke of genius. As you know I would if given even the slightest opportunity.”

“A shame.” He smiles, and the tiny jeweled studs that line his lips flash in the bright white light, picking up a caricatured outline of his grin in dazzling rainbow hues. “I imagine whoever it was is congratulating themselves even more on their excellent work now. These will certainly be some… very interesting Hunger Games.”

You incline your head in agreement. The idea truly hadn’t been yours, but you had been only too happy to run with it, and to make sure no one had a reason to second-guess it. You suppose at first it was simply because you could see the great potential for subtle manipulation concealed within the way this arena will even the playing field. Now… oh, you have some even more interesting ideas.

A sudden spray of laughter from your fellows draws your attention, and you look around to find what’s stirring them up. Since a couple of them are outright pointing at the source of their mirth, it’s not hard to find. The tributes from Twelve appear engaged in a rather strange exercise. One has a bundle of spears next to her, while the other is crouching behind one of the many targets set up for projectile practice. The blind girl is flinging the spears in the general direction of the target, unsurprisingly missing it by a fairly wide margin, and between each throw the boy sticks his head up and shouts loud insults at her, describing in detail exactly how poor the throw was as well as a number of unrelated character flaws for good measure. The whole act seems vaudevillian in nature, nonsensical, but as you watch you notice how the spears are in fact landing closer and closer to the intended target, her form and balance appear to be improving as well. You listen closer, and realize that in between the offensive language and more general criticism, the boy is in fact providing instructions of a sort. In particular you take note of his abuse when the next spear finds the mark but glances off it, how he is clearly urging her to throw higher rather than harder and let gravity do the work. You wouldn’t say you think the boy is an expert with a spear from the nature of his critique, but he has at the very least seen someone use some manner of projectile weapon before, and more importantly, he can _see _at all. He’s telling her what he sees and helping her adjust her technique, as well as allowing her to focus on the target by listening for it. He’s only making it _look_ like he’s mocking and belittling her because… well, why would he be helping her at all? By making them both look foolish, he’s drawing attention away from the fact that these two tributes are doing the most taboo thing of them all. They’re co-operating.

Fascinating.

You can tell that Kurloz is thinking along the same lines from the way he leans forward, lacing his long, elegant fingers together in front of his face. “I imagine he’s feeling sorry for her,” he muses. “How peculiar. I guess even a fellow tribute is compelled to compassion for someone so obviously disadvantaged. What do you think, Rose?”

Your name on his lips scrapes down your spine, the familiarity sticking in your throat. You watch the two children, and you wonder if they were friends – if they’re still friends, now that the reaping has demanded their blood. Twelve is a small district, and they’re the same age, so at the very least they’re most likely classmates. If one of them were to return home, it would be to an empty seat in their classroom, a voice they’ll never hear again. Against that, how heavily does a couple of hours of help really weigh? What’s the exchange rate of guilt, of desperation, of kindness? “Yes sir. I imagine that’s it.”

You sit in tense silence next to the Head Gamemaker for almost a full minute, and suddenly his laughter rings out like a crack of thunder, followed by one of his hands slapping down on his thigh in emphasis. It’s the loudest sound he’s ever made in your presence, loud enough that it causes a couple of the tributes to look up, and you have to fight yourself not to start like a frightened animal. But even so, he probably hears your soft gasp of surprise, and the wink he directs at you is meant as a reply. “Well, we’ll just see how that goes, won’t we?” he demands, inviting you to share the joke. You offer him a thin-lipped smile, raising your eyebrows slightly.

“Oh yes. We certainly will.”

* * *

Your latest patron had insisted on feeding you breakfast and doting cloyingly on you in the morning, and there was nothing you could say to get away from it before he was satisfied. Now dawn has long come and gone, but the streets are still lazily quiet, because every day leading up to the Games is one of late-night revelry in the Capitol. As you turn a corner and walk quickly toward the Visitor’s Center, you think about how boring life as a victor has been back home, now that you’re neither expected to train, study or work, and wonder just how mindlessly dull you’d find existence as a citizen of the Capitol. Maybe then you’d look at your life of pointless excess and long for the weeks when you could indulge_ even more_.

But then, you’d live a life where your only options wouldn’t be to be a victor, a stone cutter, or dead. A life where you could choose what to be, of countless opportunities. You would know nothing about how to set your own bones, or where to direct a blade to ensure as much bleeding as possible, but you would’ve been allowed to study anything you choose, tear the universe apart and put it together again in your mind, just for fun. Outmaneuvering other children and surviving Bro’s mind games wouldn’t have been the greatest challenge for your mind. And Dave… Dave would’ve been allowed to paint, to listen to music, to write and blossom and be alive, without paying for every single hard-earned pleasure in his blood, sweat and tears.

You close your eyes for a moment, and the vision hangs like a soap bubble in your mind, unreal and shimmering. Only to predictably burst into nothing a moment later. The illusion of endless choice in the Capitol is just that, an illusion. It’s a pretty, sickly sweet lie. Their world is limited, small, curved in on itself, too enamored with its own reflection to notice the golden bars that surround it. Everyone who flaps their wings can expect to have them clipped. You push the door open, head toward the elevators. No wonder someone like Rose is fighting to bring it down. You’d like to think that you’d do the same in her situation – or rather, you hope you would, because you can think of too many less savory alternatives you might chose, and you suspect that you’d never be fully satisfied. If you cannot tear the foundations of the world apart, after all, the only alternative left is to try to rule it.

When you reach your room, you’re not surprised to find that Jake is already there, dozing on the bed, his wet hair leaving faint shadows on the dark blue sheets, small droplets of water still glistening on his broad shoulders. You sigh, tugging your thin mesh shirt up and slipping it over your head, before unbuttoning your glossy white pants and kicking them off your legs. At least the annoyingly patronizing idiot you’d spent the night with had insisted you have a bath at his place before leaving, so you don’t feel too filthy.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, reaching out and brushing your fingers across the currently opaque window glass to activate the controls. As you slide a digit down a dial, the room grows gradually brighter, the world through the glass fading from underwater gloom into full colors. A group of Capitol party-goers below are walking home in their now seriously disheveled outfits from last night, laughing mutely and pantomiming the aftermath of their intoxication. You sigh. Sometimes your patrons expect you to drink with them, but it never makes you giddy or impulsive, never takes the edge off what’s happening. Maybe if you had more, maybe if you allowed yourself to be completely insensible, you’d find the sweet numbness that others seem to achieve so effortlessly. But in such a state you wouldn’t be good for anything except allowing yourself to be taken and then discarded. Not that there aren’t some patrons who would enjoy that, but you cannot afford it. What if you missed some important information, what if you woke up with your memory wiped blank, with all your careful observations dissolving like sugar in hot water? It’s the one purpose you actually serve as they pass your conquered body from hand to hand, the one thing you’re holding on to. How could you let go, even for one evening?

Jake makes a concerned sound behind you, running his hand across your back, and you honestly can’t fathom what’s upset him until you feel his fingers carefully circling the red welts left on your skin. Oh, right. The belt. You sink back against his chest, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. “It’s nothing,” you tell him indifferently. “Barely even stung. Bro used to do worse every day for as long as I can remember.”

You’d meant to reassure him, but his frown only deepens, hurt bleeding into his gaze. As if just hearing about it somehow leaves the ghosts of bruises on his skin. It makes you feel off center somehow, off balance, as if you are vulnerable to his compassion in a way which cruelty can no longer achieve. You twist impatiently in his arms, pushing him back against the sheets and pinning him there, but he just smiles weakly and pulls you in for a placating kiss. He doesn’t fight back, and that drains the fight from your limbs so fast that it feels like bleeding, causing you to slump into his strong embrace like a puppet with its strings cut.

What would Jake be like if he was born in this place? Probably going along with it, smiling and reading the lines, slowly and methodically drowning the part of him which would be screaming that it’s all wrong. He would understand, you think, but he’d pretend so well that no one would be able to tell, not even he. His mind doesn’t break things apart, doesn’t climb, doesn’t beat against every barrier it encounters like a wild thing. His mind builds towers and imprisons itself, safe in the certainty that no one on the ground can hear the occasional sound of weeping, of faltering breaths.

A comfortable and slow death, in other words.

His thumb brushes the hair at the nape of your neck, his stubble makes your cheek tingle, his breathing is loud in your ear. There are words for this feeling, this safety you find in his arms, but you’re careful to let them sink into silence before you can even think them. It’s enough, that’s what you tell yourself. It’s enough to spend some time in his tower. It’s enough to let the water rise over your head. It’s enough to allow yourself to sink.

What would Bro be like in this place? No, you can’t imagine it. No matter what he is, and you aren’t often in the mood to be generous as you describe him, he is nonetheless an absolute product of his environment. Bro as he is today could never exist in the Capitol, couldn’t grow so twisted if planted in more permissive soil, which is ironic considering how the weight of their supremacy was what created him.

Jake pushes you back gently, tilting your chin up and meeting your gaze, as if trying to figure out what you’re feeling. You expect it when he lifts his hand and hooks one finger over the bridge of your shades, sliding them off and putting them aside. This time his smile is softer, albeit still a bit tentative, and your participation in the following kiss is more than just perfunctory. His skin is so warm against yours, and as you press closer you feel your nerve endings suddenly realize that you’re still alive, that you’re present. You blink. It’s as if you can barely remember this morning, making your way to the Visitor Center, or anything else until this moment. No, that’s not right. You can remember, but it blends together and starts fading into obscurity when you try to examine the details, as if everything before this moment happened to someone else, allowing themselves to be directed by you from afar. You’ve had moments like this your whole life, and it’s only gotten worse after the Games. You don’t know what to call it, but you know it’s neither freedom or the kind of numbness you’ve always yearned for from afar. It’s the thing that chases you as you try to make something worth having of your life, of yourself; the promise of tergiversation and a life lived dull and impotent. Not sinking, not diving, but drifting. Being carried by the current like a corpse, like a body passed debilitated and apostatic from hand to hand.

You kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him again until you taste blood. You feel his hands grasp and twist in your hair, and your spine arches as you welcome the pain. You’re here. You’re present. You’re still running ahead, you’re not going to allow yourself to fall. And as the world crumbles around you, you hope the ground behind you does as well. Maybe then, in the absence of both drudgery and lies, somewhere new and sharp and limitless, you’ll be able to finally stop. Not a ruler, not a destroyer. Just a brother, a friend, a lover, a man.

It sounds too good to be true, but you have to hope. You can’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one reader asked about how old everyone is, so i thought i’d make a handy little list for y’all. this is everyone’s ages at the current moment, aka the start of the 74th hunger games:
> 
> Dave & Dirk: 18  
Jake: 20  
Karkat & Terezi: 16  
Rose: 30  
Roxy: 28  
Jane: 36  
Bro: 34  
Vriska: 19  
Meenah: 40  
Feferi: 42  
Kanaya: 25  
Tavros: 24  
Jade: 15  
John: 21
> 
> <3


	15. Premeditate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a fluke, not an accident, not a stroke of luck. You planned this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, this is certainly very late. but it's also (still, technically) finally finished on my wife's birthday, so it still feels like some kind of accomplishment. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HONEY. and thank you for your patience, everyone.
> 
> the order is terezi > karkat

The days of training seem to pass unnaturally fast, measured entirely in a steadily dwindling supply of time to absorb, to train, to learn anything and everything that might save your life in the arena. You know you’ve spent it well, delving deep into the kind of survival skills you’ve never had the opportunity contemplate before this point. You know plenty about intimidating aggressors, fighting back from a position of physical disadvantage, manipulating those who wish to use you. But apart from the other tributes, the sort of dangers that you will face soon cannot be outsmarted. Most of them can only be amended or endured, and enduring is just another word for dying by inches.

You think you’ve done as well as can be expected, spending as much time as possible touching and smelling anything that might be edible, focusing specifically on plants that will be relatively easy to find without a visual cue. It’s frustrating, of course, because that’s not how the trainers are used to teach tributes, and you can tell they’re not sure how to approach the matter. They’ve never had to instruct someone in how to start fires in the wild by feel either, or lay a snare, or search for water without the benefit of vision. It’s not the first time in your interactions with another person that you’ve felt like they’re more hampered by your disability than you are, but it’s certainly the worst fucking timing for it.

Karkat helps. That’s quite possibly the worst part. It’s obvious that _he _has thought about how to teach you, has probably contemplated it since discussing the topic on the train, and has actually worked out some helpful tips. Of course he has to be careful, since he can’t let the other tributes see how good he is, but knowledge and advice are easily passed in a few whispers at lunchtime, and it becomes obvious that he’s also keeping an eye on you and taking note of what you struggle with. You’ve got no choice but to grit your teeth and bear it, to do otherwise would be nothing short of a betrayal to Latula, but it’s as if he’s rubbing your debt to him in your face. Impossible, of course, since he doesn’t know that you know, but it nonetheless makes you furious. You’d hoped to get away with asking him for help in one thing, and one thing only, but here he is, casually racking up new favours that are fated to remain unpaid for, obligations unfulfilled.

There’s not much you can do to help him in turn, since tributes aren’t allowed to spar with each other, and even if that wasn’t the case, it would be close to impossible to keep your own prowess a secret while giving him physical instructions. You listen to his lessons with the hand-to-hand combat trainer whenever you’re close by, and you can tell it’s not going great. He obviously hesitates way too much, afraid of getting hurt and probably even more afraid of the hurt he might cause. Of course that balance will shift drastically in a real fight, but that’s no consolation if he can’t at least learn some basic motions and strategies before that point. Panic and inexperience together is a certain killer.

He tries to keep a tough facade, of course, alternating between bravado and sullen defiance, but if he can’t keep the cracks out of his voice you doubt his face is faring much better. Whenever he’s instructed in how to kill an incapacitated enemy, those cracks grow into chasms, debilitating horror so palpable in his voice that you’d swear you could almost sense the bile rising in his throat.

Some of the other tributes laugh at him, make uncharitable comments about his martial skills and size at mealtimes, and at least he’s not the sort to take that sort of thing lying down. But while suffering in silence would undoubtedly be worse, the threats and insults he slings in turn might just be painting a huge target on his back, and as soon as the other tributes are allowed to go after him… well, you suppose you should think of that as good luck. Hope someone else kills him before you have to. The thought is hard to stomach in view of everything he’s done for you, but it’s better than having to contemplate killing him yourself.

The days pass. You learn what you can, and try not to overthink things. What you cannot amend you have to endure. At least it’s not killing you yet.

You will never be able to outsmart cold, or manipulate poison plants into sparing you. To be stupid enough to fall for tricks, you first have to have something to be stupid with. You need _intelligence _for proper stupidity. So while you focus on absorbing knowledge, you are very well aware of that your true talents are wasted on more or less anything you might learn in the training center, save for the stuff you already know.

Luckily, there’s not a shortage of minds to mess with available. Since the easiest kind of person to maneuver and exploit is anyone who thinks they have an advantage over you, who think they are smarter and better than you, you would in fact have to call it a target-rich environment.

It is time. You know what you have to do.

As the girl from Twelve, you will be the last tribute to undergo your private training session. This is in fact a crucial part of your plan. You’ve noticed during training that as the day passes, the voices from above become more rowdy, you hear more laughter from the central area and less footsteps from the observation galleries surrounding the hall. You hear glasses clinking together, smell food. A lot of what you all do in training is most likely not that riveting to watch. And well, with twenty-three tributes before you who are each allotted fifteen minutes of private time at most, that is going to take a fair few hours, even bearing in mind that not everyone will be able to fill their full share of time. That’s an awful lot of time to be expected to pay attention, right?

As you walk into the training hall alone, it certainly seems as if you’ve been right. Their voices don’t really change or quieten at your entrance, and as you get closer you think you can even smell the wine. You don’t really do anything to try to get their attention, although you can’t imagine that you’re not being observed at all as you go get a mounted training dummy and drag it closer to them, and then go to exchange your cane for a couple of spears. Returning to the dummy, you put one spear on the ground next to you, hefting the other.

Now they are quieter. You breathe in deep and focus your thoughts, moving the butt of the spear in the air in front of you, working out where exactly the dummy is since it doesn’t breathe or make any other helpful sounds to help you allocate it. Then you start making swipes and thrusts against it, not pummeling it but simply marking your attacks, consistently halting the spear right before impact to show off the precision of your movements. No matter what you do, what you’re doing now isn’t going to look all that impressive, although you’d very much like to challenge them to do even half as good with a blindfold on. That’s not important. At least you have to make it look like you’re trying.

You keep your breathing calm, quiet. There’s another reason why you’re not letting the spear hit the dummy, even if making a mess of it might convince them of your ferocity at least. That would make too much noise, and right now you need to listen oh so carefully, work out positions, keep count. You can’t leave anyone unaccounted for, can’t risk doing actual damage, or your life is probably forfeit. But since it most likely is anyway, your plan is worth the gamble.

Their voices are once again getting louder, their attention waning. They can only watch one blind girl attacking a stationary target for so long, it seems. You have to time this just right. The longer you can hold out, the more distracted they’ll be, but you cannot risk them dismissing you before you have your chance either. Don’t relax, don’t panic, _wait_. Keep listening. There’s a ripple in their voices now, something drawing a quite few of them to the left, the smell of meat. The ones still on the right remain seated. Now. _Now._

Learning to aim for Karkat while he was making sounds had been hard, and at least aiming for where there is no sound provides a much bigger target, but you also haven’t had to throw as high before this point. The risks of undershooting are worse than overshooting, so you put every ounce of strength you have into the throw, and then you stand still and breathless as a statue as the spear leaves your hand. You listen as the silence drags out for an impossible span of time, a moment suspended beyond welcome and beyond reason, waiting in dread for any sound indicating you missed, or even worse, that you hit something you didn’t intend. That you hit some_one_.

You clearly hear the tip of the spear hitting a metal wall, a little lower than you were aiming but apparently still high enough to sail harmlessly over the heads of the seated Gamemakers. A moment later it falls with a clatter to the floor, and there’s a chorus of delayed shrieks and gasps, stumbling feet, sliding chairs, and then silence. You bend down and grab the second spear, grinning up at them as you twirl it casually in your fingers.

“Miss Pyrope,” cautions a choked voice from above you. Not dropping the spear, you lift your other hand and point in the direction of that voice, not needing to say anything beyond this clear indication that you know exactly where he is now, let them all work out that you missed so widely on purpose the first time. You leave them wondering for just a moment longer if you really are either stupid or crazy enough to throw the second spear, to exchange a brief and pointless act of unseen rebellion for expedited death at their hands, before easily plunging forward and burying the tip of your weapon right through the throat of the dummy.

“Was there anything else?” you ask sweetly, straightening up.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, you hear a woman’s laughter, bright and altogether too pleasant for the circumstances. You think you can hear a man’s low chuckle as well, far more menacing. Everyone else remains in shocked silence. “No, miss Pyrope,” says the woman, amusement filling out the meticulous syllables and making them ring almost triumphant. “That will be all.”

You nod, and turn around to go retrieve your cane. You’ve done what you can. You don’t expect a brilliant score, but you also don’t expect them to discount you completely in a hurry. At this point at least, being boring will kill you a lot faster, and now you’ve made certain they’ll have no choice but to keep their attention on you.

* * *

Of course, when they give you a ten, you’re not quite so cocky anymore. It was hardly a display of expert marksmanship as much as nerve, after all. Does that really warrant a ten? Or are they just trying to get you killed quick? No one is cheering, and there’s an uneasy atmosphere hanging over your little team gathered in front of the TV, because it doesn’t make sense. No matter how you twist it, you can’t work out how they could possibly justify giving a blind girl such a high score, based purely on guts some martial skill. Plenty of other tributes have both, and a complete set of fully functional senses besides.

What are you missing?

Karkat gets to his feet and leaves the room without a word. He’d gotten a five. Not the very lowest score, but well, he’d still been outscored with a margin of two whole points by Karako. What can you say to someone after they’ve been officially judged less likely to survive than a blind girl and a twelve-year-old? There’s nothing, and you all know it. Even so, Kanaya excuses herself a moment later, presumably to follow him.

“Fuck it,” says Meenah, “does anyone else want a drink? ‘Cuz I’m gonna need one. You kids ain’t good for my health, you’re too damn full of surprises.” But she doesn’t sound entirely displeased.

You say nothing, too busy filtering out the chatter of the commentators on the TV, the wild speculations about your good fortune, as you replay the female Gamemaker’s voice in your head, trying to wring some clue out of the tone of her words, the soft cadences of her laughter. She’d sounded pleased somehow, but that’s not enough information, there’s only so many conclusions you can draw from a Gamemaker being smug. You frown, feeling the tension in your jaw starting to creep up to your temples, making them throb. Then a hand squeezes your left shoulder, the slight tremor in it telling you it belongs to Tavros, and you’re gently pulled back to the present.

“Let’s, uh, turn that off, shall we?” he suggests, and a moment later the excited babbling of the hosts disappears. “I, mm- I don’t know about you, Terezi, but I think I’ll, um, take you up on that drink, Meenah.”

* * *

If there is any upside to your most likely very brief future, it’s that you won’t have that many chances to think back on the day-long training session before your interview ever again. Having Feferi harangue you about proper body language and posture, etiquette and elocution, tut-tutting every time you swear and demanding you start over, was enough to get right on your very last nerve, but that wasn’t even the worst part. That dubious honor went to Meenah attempting to help you make your personality more palatable to the audience, or at the very least more interesting. At least she realized that ‘flirty’ or ‘excited’ wasn’t going to fly, but you were too emotional to be aloof, too touchy to come off as ferocious, too small to pull off stoic – you’d just come off as intimidated instead – and too impulsive and hostile to even attempt to be charming. You’d been certain she was about to give up on you, when she’d finally asked you why you’d asked to be tutored separately. She hadn’t questioned it when you first brought it up, because why wouldn’t someone with a five feel threatened enough by a ten to maybe want to keep a few secrets? But by then, exhausted and dispirited as you were, you decided to tell her your plan. You hadn’t known for sure if you’d expected her approval or her disappointment, but as it was, all she did was to curtly agree with you that it made sense, and get to work finding an angle for you.

Kanaya has put you in a black dress shirt and pants with tiny, dazzling orange and red lights sown into every seam, making you think of smoldering coal, of potential, of something waiting only for a light breeze to turn into a devouring blaze. As if to hint at that, your prep team has dyed your hair in a fiery gradient, but just a few locks here and there, only really catching the eye when you move your head. It’s all very brilliant, but the electric lights also make the clothes very warm, especially under the almost blinding glare which floods the interview stage from every direction. Having to sit there for the entire duration of the show, stared at by every idiot in the Capitol with nothing better to do – so that’s all of them, probably – is also making you sick with nerves, your muscles tense as you try to convince yourself not to simply bolt. It’s just that telling yourself _‘there’s nowhere to run to’_ isn’t actually helping all that much.

On the chair next to you, Terezi is also dressed in a shirt and pants, the cut of both being obviously more feminine than yours, but that’s not the biggest difference. In colors, she’s your complete opposite, dressed in bright flame hues with accents in a black so complete, it looks like someone has slashed ribbons out of a cloudy winter night and lined her clothes with them. And while the make-up on your face carries the flame theme, glittering and bright against your brown skin, her normally pale lips are painted in the same kind of matte black, her eyes dramatically framed is shades of smoke and ashes behind those bright red glasses. She looks dangerous and wild, her grin not entirely human. She also looks beautiful, but very much the same way a flame is. It’s the kind of beauty you hopefully know better than to try to touch.

You try to tune out the other tributes as much as possible, because if they’re terrifying you don’t need to be more scared of them than you already are, and if they’re pitiful it’s too painful, and the rest you can ignore. You do notice that Horuss Zahhak has some trouble with the creepy boy from Two, because he doesn’t seem to want to talk. He just sits there, pale and menacing, and stares the host down for almost the entire duration of the interview. Only when asked how he intends to win does he finally raise one eyebrow, a thin smile distorting his mouth in a way that makes you think he hasn’t had a lot of practice. “What makes you think I haven’t already won?” he says, and then gets up without getting dismissed and stalks back to his chair in the arc of tributes.

A similar but nonetheless different issue presents itself much later during the interviews when Karako steps up, because of course he doesn’t speak either. But it’s not like he doesn’t respond, in facial expressions, small sounds and big, dramatic gestures, and despite yourself you have to give the host at least a little bit of credit. He really does seem to be trying to help, by focusing on asking questions with simple yes or no answers, and by theatrically playing along with the child’s reactions, until the interview seems to evolve into an intricate game of charades. It would of course be a lot more endearing to watch Karako teach Zahhak an intricate clapping game to the accompaniment of loud merriment if this wasn’t a prelude to an elaborate form of human sacrifice, but you suppose that on this last day outside the Games, you can only be happy that something is making the kid laugh.

Then it’s Terezi’s turn. She stands up, and the transparent collar of her shirt which almost forms something like a small cape flutters around her like butterfly wings. They’ve even given her a new cane for the interviews, black instead of white, decorated in glittering swirls of blood red which seem to form the disembodied eyes, teeth and claws of some kind of feral beast depending how the light plays across it. Zahhak gallantly goes to meet her and guide her to the interview chair, but of course she smacks him right in the shins with her cane and strolls past, her probing fingers finding the seat with little issue. The host plays up the agony of her blow a great deal, limping over to his own chair in the manner of a defeated warrior and slumping dramatically onto its padded surface.

“Well, you’ve already taken _me_ out, so that’s a good start!”

A huge laugh from the audience. Terezi wrinkles her nose dismissively. “Sorry, Horuss, but you’re not really what I’d consider a worthy opponent. If you were back in Twelve, I would’ve stolen your lunch and sent you crying for your mommy.” It’s a daring thing to say, with that not-so-subtle reminder of exactly how useless Capitol citizens would be out in the districts, but the crowd goes absolutely wild for it. Most of them probably don’t get the implied threat, you suppose. But you think about your father’s rambling rants against them, Porrim’s knuckles going white as she clenched her fists by her wife’s grave, your mother tightening her bow. Terezi is right. They wouldn’t last a day.

“I don’t doubt it,” the host replies, laughing avuncularly, but you suspect he understand the danger of such talk a lot better, and you’re not surprised when he redirects the subject. “So, Terezi… I think we’re all wondering by now, what are your thoughts on that ten in training scores? I have to tell you, I almost fell out of my chair when I saw it. What a great twist!”

“Oh?” Terezi smiles evilly. “Were you doubting me? Maybe you shouldn’t judge people so quickly, have you ever thought about that?”

“Well, I think you’ve taught all of us a very important lesson about judging too quickly,” Zahhak agrees, to a surge of agreement from the audience. “So you’re not surprised at all, then?”

“Maybe I was surprised it wasn’t higher,” Terezi quips back, earning her more laughter, but you at least notice that it’s not an actual answer. She _had_ been shocked yesterday; even as the sense of inevitability had settled on you and the realization left you almost completely numb, you’d seen her struggle to keep her composure. Her absolutely insane, borderline suicidal stunt had been meant to stop her from getting a score of one or two, and had somehow given her a score that would be considered impossibly good for any tribute from Twelve.

“Well, you must certainly have done something incredibly impressive. Can’t you just give us a little hint?”

“What, and give away the surprise? Where’s the fun in that?” Terezi cackles, shrugging. “Besides, I’m pretty sure the Gamemakers wouldn’t want me to spoil the romance by blabbing all our little secrets, right?”

You can see the cameras and a couple of the lights turning toward the Gamemakers, and one of them stands up and inclines her head, her full lips curving into a secretive smile. “She’s right,” is all she says. The crowd groans, but Zahhak hushes them.

“I’m sorry everybody, it’s absolutely driving me to distraction as well, but alas, rules are there to obey. So instead...” He turns back to Terezi, and as his voice lowers and grows more serious, an expectant hush rapidly spreads across the audience. “That score is far from the only thing that is unique about you. Now, first of all: Are you worried at all? Everyone else in there will have a huge advantage on you, after all.”

“Will they really?” Terezi asks, as if she’s deeply contemplating the question. Then she’s suddenly on her feet and practically in Zahhak’s lap in one swift movement, and though everyone else reacts with audible surprise, you know _exactly_ what she’s doing. Oh, goddamnit. You bury your face in your hands as you hear her take a deep, audible sniff of the surprised host, and at least your groan isn’t going to register over the confused laughter that follows. “You know, Horuss,” she says in a penetrative stage whisper, “I can see why a busy man such as yourself would eat a salmon and egg sandwich right before going on air, but I’m not so sure you should’ve washed it down with gin. I mean, really? Drinking on the job? For shame.” Then she straightens up with a triumphant grin, backing until the back of her legs find her chair again, and sits down.

For a moment you see real surprise and discomfort flicker across the host’s turquoise-ringed eyes, and then he quickly recovers, laughing good-naturedly in response. “Now now, don’t judge me too harshly. I’m planning to drink _after_ my job as well.” Apparently this whole exchange is the height of wit, judging by the laughter from the audience, though personally you feel like tipping them both off the stage. “But I can see that you’re full of surprises, and a lot of confidence as well. I think she deserves a hand for that, don’t you?” The crowd roars back. Zahhak waits a moment, then once more lowers his voice to something more serious. “And finally… you’re the first volunteer Twelve has ever had, Terezi. Sacrificing yourself for your little sister… well, I think I speak for all of us when I say, it was clear to everyone watching how much you love her.”

You grit your teeth, as this time the crowd is plunged into complete silence, and you can see Terezi’s expression growing stiff and distant. Yes, it was obvious, because no matter how composed Terezi had remained in that moment, no one could’ve missed the frantic way she’d thrown her sister to the ground behind her, or the shattered longing in Latula’s voice as she cried out for her. It was a moment of such raw emotion, such deep loss, that no one else should’ve been privy to it, especially not this hoard of bloodthirsty assholes who now draw closer to the stage as if desperate to wring every last drop of sentiment from this presumably heartfelt moment.

“She’s all I have,” Terezi says flatly, because she has to. They’re giving her no choice. You think of Nepeta’s arms wrapped around your legs in the Justice Building, her small voice begging you to make promises you’d never be able to keep, and your heart breaks for her. This is so sick, so twisted and evil, that it’s all you can do to keep yourself from crying right there on stage. Not yet, you caution yourself, and force yourself to listen to Terezi’s answer. To make it matter as more than just a spectacle. “Our parents are dead. I couldn’t let her go.”

“Of course,” Zahhak agrees sympathetically, reaching out as if to pat her hand, but he seems to change his mind at the last moment and just rests it on the arm of her chair instead. “And you’re all she has too, is that so?”

Terezi nods, her jaw taut.

“Well, then I have no doubt you’ll do your best to come home to her again.”

You can tell she tries to smile again, but she can’t quite manage it, and her expression looks more like a snarl. Can anyone else see how those meticulously painted lips tremble, see how she curls her fingers like claws in her lap? You hope not. “I’m not leaving her alone. I’m going back to Twelve. There’s nothing I won’t do to make sure of it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Zahhak agrees solemnly. “Well, another hand for miss Terezi Pyrope and her burning determination! Wish her good luck, everyone!”

As Terezi returns to her seat next to you, you wish there was something you could do for her, some small gesture of support that would actually mean something. But if you tried to touch her she’d probably think you were trying to make her look weak, and you’d get a jab with her cane for your trouble, and that limits any gestures she’d actually notice to practically zero. Besides, the crowd is waiting for the last tribute, and you have no time to linger. You get up awkwardly, feeling beads of sweat slipping down your back, and can only hope you don’t look as soaked in it as you feel.

The chariot ride had been bad enough, but at least you’d had Terezi by your side for that. Now you have to face the crowd alone, and for your plan to work you have to get them on your side, make them believe you. It might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and you still can’t explain to yourself why you’re doing it. It’s not about your own feelings anymore; the simple story you’re about to tell is in fact one that ended silently years ago, but that doesn’t matter. You have so little time left, and you have to make it count. This is all you have left to hold on to, the only way you can think of to make your life matter.

“-bit of nerves, I believe,” Zahhak remarks with a laugh, and you’re pulled back to reality.

“What?” you snap testily, and though you aren’t looking in her direction at all, you’re sure Feferi is sighing in exasperation somewhere in the audience.

“Oh ho, easy there young man,” replies the host. “I was just saying that I’ve heard a rumor that you greeted the Capitol in a rather… abrasive manner when you first arrived.” There are titters and amused shouts from the crowd, and you tell yourself that trying to sink right through your chair and let the earth engulf you isn’t a viable alternative. “So I wanted to know, have we managed to change your opinion at all? Have you enjoyed your stay here?”

You’re about to ask him if he’s out of his fucking mind, demand to know how the fuck he’s expecting you to enjoy being fattened up for slaughter, but with some effort you bite the words back. You’ll win no favours with the crowd that way. So instead you look down in your lap and hunch your shoulders a bit, trying to come up with a less offensive answer that doesn’t sound like complete bullshit. “The food is good,” you mutter, and then force yourself to speak up a bit more, “and I’ve been watching movies when I can. I haven’t seen many before.” At home, most of what they air on TV is reruns of the Games and general propaganda. The only movies you’ve seen are the Capitol approved ones you’re occasionally allowed watch at school, and though the stories and their heavy-handed moral lessons are usually hard to stomach, you’d nonetheless found yourself entranced by the acting and the imagery.

Zahhak raises his glittering eyebrows in surprise. “What have we here, a fledgling movie aficionado? Which one did you like the most?”

You feel your cheeks grow warmer. “_A tale of Hearts_ was basically superior in every way to all the movies I watched… but the others were pretty good too.” All the movies you’d watched had been about romance, because those were more or less the only movies that occasionally didn’t focus way too much on violence and tragedy, even if they weren’t outright about the Games… which a lot of them were. Then again, you’d always been fond of songs and stories about love.

“You know, I really would not have pegged you for a romantic,” the host says, as if he’d heard what you were thinking. “But now I just have to ask… is there a special someone? Someone you’ve got your eyes on?”

You remind yourself to breathe again, so relieved to have an opening and terrified that you might still screw it up. “Yes,” you say in a choked voice. It’s not exactly a lie. She _is_ special to you, and even if your feelings have changed over the years, you’ve always watched her from afar. If you didn’t care about her, you wouldn’t be able to do this. But the people here would never be able to understand. You could never make them see how deeply you can love someone just for being so many things you wish you could be, or how it can be enough to just watch over someone you admire. You don’t know any words capable of explaining to them how a childhood crush had with time blossomed into this strange one-sided fellowship, as you waited and hoped that one day she’d find out that you’d always been her friend. That’s all you ever really wanted, for her to know you were on her side.

Does anyone in the Capitol know what it’s like to respect and cherish someone without needing to receive something in return? It’s hard to imagine.

“She’s the smartest person I know, and the bravest too. It’s impossible not to notice her, because she fills every room she’s in and makes everything… different. Like it matters so much more because she’s there.” Your words are awkward and embarrassing, but you hope that this at least makes them seem more genuine.

“Beautiful too, I don’t doubt.”

You frown down at your hands, picking at the little flames painted on your nails. “Sure. I guess.” You remember her black hair plastered against hollow cheeks that day so long ago, her hands raw with cold from digging through people’s garbage in the pouring rain. You remember her covered in coal dust from taking a tumble down by the slag heap, singing in harmonies with her sister as they walked home together. You remember her spitting out blood and messily wiping her chin, then grinning widely with her teeth smeared in red and hitting the boy she was fighting so hard with her cane, his nose looked like a plum for a week after. Was she any more or less beautiful then than now? “I don’t actually think she gives a fuck, though. It probably wouldn’t mean jack shit to her if someone told her she was beautiful.” Well, you made it until just now without swearing. You hope Feferi is proud. “But I know that I- I’ve never been able to look away for long. I don’t know if that means that she’s pretty or just… special. Unlike anyone else.”

“Well, hearing all this, I’m certain she thinks herself unusually lucky too, having won the affection of such a devoted young man,” Zahhak says, and you actually laugh, even if it’s thoroughly acerbic.

“What? No. Fuck no. I’ve never told her. I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, since it’s this big fucking secret which I’m great at keeping, but I’m actually abyssmally bad at talking to people. I’ll give you a moment to recover from the shock.” This gets you a laugh from the crowd, who apparently appreciate your self-deprecating honesty. Your mouth twists, the pressure in your chest growing heavier still, and you have to force each word across your lips, tear them loose as if they were welded to your lungs, embedded in your flesh. “I never had the guts to even talk to her. Back at the reaping, I couldn’t help thinking that… that I never would. I’d never have a chance to tell her how I feel.”

“Oh, this is heartbreaking!” The host looks at the audience for agreement, and receives a loud ‘_awwww!_’ right on cue. You have to grit your teeth to not lose your shit. “Still, how serendipitous that we happened upon the subject, wouldn’t you say? Now...” He leans in, and the audience once again knows what’s expected of them, growing so quiet and still that it seems impossible that they can’t hear the frantic beating of your heart, the spasmodic clenching of your throat. “...what time could be better? You’ve already said how you feel, and all you would have to do is say her name, and she would know. If you think about it, you have nothing to lose.”

Nothing to lose? You can’t hold back another laugh, but it’s so brittle and broken, it sounds more like a whimper. You shake your head, feeling your eyes start to sting. This was your plan all along, but now that you have a perfect chance, you find yourself ashamed of what you’re about to do. Isn’t it selfish, laying this on her? Can you really claim that you’re doing this for her sake? “No. It- Fuck, it wouldn’t be fair to her. It wouldn’t be right.”

The host spreads his hands imploringly. “Are you sure? This could be the very last chance you have to let her know, and I’m sure no one could blame you for a final, heartfelt confession... _or_ you win the Games, and you return home to tell her many, many more times – how could any girl refuse?” A huge cheer, as if a girl marrying you either out of pity or because you’ll be wealthy is something you ought to desire. As if being a victor is something enviable. For some reason you suddenly recall Dave Strider squeezing your hand in his, and how you hadn’t been able to block from your mind all the dreadful things you’d seen those hands do. What must it be like for him?

“You don’t understand.” You close your eyes, feeling hot tears spilling down your cheeks. No, you’re not doing this for her sake, so why pretend? The truth is that as scared as you are of death, there are things that scare you more. You’re supposed to go into the arena and fight for your life, and when it comes down to it, you probably will. Maybe someone like your dad would stay true to his convictions no matter what, but as much as you want to believe that you can be that strong, you don’t actually have any faith in yourself in that regard. How will you remember, once you’re in there, the shape of the person you’ve tried to become? Once hunger, pain and fear have worn you down, stretched you thin and feeble, do you really think there’s anything you wouldn’t do to make the torture stop?

What are you willing to bet on it?

What horrors are your hands capable of?

What are you willing to sacrifice to stop that from happening?

You’re going to die. Whatever they might drive you to before that point, you know that won’t change. They’ve already taken your life from you, your family, your home. You’re not going to let them take more. While you still have your voice, your hands, your senses, your own will, you will use them to try to save her. For as long as you can, you will refuse to play their game. You’re doing this for you, and it might be cruel, but it’s all you’ve got. Since you can’t trust yourself, you will trust in that training score, in the girl you never managed to catch up with, in the one thing you can do to improve her chances right here and now. You will trust Terezi to survive.

“I can’t win.” You draw in a shaky breath, wiping the tears off your face with your sleeve. “It’s fucking impossible.”

You can tell that Zahhak is uncomfortable. It happens that tributes break down, but almost everyone knows better than to talk like this. Being pathetic might get you momentary sympathy, but it doesn’t get you sponsors. “Now now, that’s no way to talk. Everyone has a chance to win.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You smile humorlessly, your breath catching in your throat. “You said I’ve got nothing to lose, but you’re wrong. I lose either way.” If she hates you for this… well, it won’t be for long. You hope she’ll let you apologize, but you wouldn’t bet on it. “Either I lose the Games, and I die. But if I win… if I win _she_ dies insted.” You hear the audience murmur in confusion, and though you can see Zahhak’s eyes slowly start to widen, know he’s getting there, you decide not to drag it out. “The girl, her name… it’s Terezi Pyrope. So you see, I’ve already lost.”

You don’t wait to be dismissed, just stand up without another word. Zahhak does the same, taking your hand and shaking it solemnly. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, and he sounds sincere. The groan from the audience doesn’t sound staged either, their stray cries apparently containing real shock and dismay. They only care insofar as they enjoy doing so, the way the pain in a love story or a ballad is beautiful and moving because it’s not your own. But if you can make them care enough to think about it here and now, if you can make them believe in this moment that the games are unwinnable and cruel, then you suppose that’s better than nothing.

They cheer you loudly as you return to the arc of victors, taking your place next to Terezi. You know she still hears you, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge you in any way. Her back is taut, her cheeks flushed, her hands gripping the cane so hard that her knuckles are going white. All the cameras are focused on you and her, and though she can’t see it, you can’t imagine she doesn’t know. Despite everything she just did to establish her strength, her fire, your words have nonetheless made her into someone tragic. It’s hard to imagine anything she might hate more. You’d made her part of your story without asking her, and you will have to face the consequences of your actions. It’s only fair.

You stand up for the anthem with a sense of defeat dragging your limbs down. All you ever wanted was for her to know you were on her side. But you’ll never be able to convince her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the reasons i struggled with the chapter is that once again i wanted to mirror events in HG rather closely, but at the same time i didn't want to just... rewrite it with different characters, because that's lame and also wouldn't completely work. i hope that i managed to get across that while the scenarios are similar, the motivations obviously aren't going to be the same ヽ(゜～゜o)ノ at least i trieeeed.
> 
> okay i am so ready to write these gamessssss let's goooooo.


	16. Crepuscule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You say what needs to be said, in accordance with the conventions of last words. It is time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ok, sorry for going MIA but it's it's all just /HAND GESTURES/ been A Lot lately. everything. anyway, here's a v long chapter and there's more stuff coming up relatively soon. hopefully that makes up for it.
> 
> the order of perspectives is dave > terezi > karkat

“Well, damn.”

You glance sideways at Dirk as the two of you follow the slowly dispersing crowd away from the City Circle; the interviews being done, most Capitol citizens will seek out the abundance of festivities which fill the night before the Games. As for you and Dirk, you’re expected to take part of the fun, or more accurately, to _be_ part of the fun.

You’re not really sure how to respond. ‘Well damn’ pretty much covers it.

“Unusual gambit,” your brother continues, his voice as tempered as ever, but you catch the inflection that isn’t there, indicated by the slight lift of his eyebrows. Unusual is certainly a word for it. You will admit that you’d underestimated Karkat Vantas when you met him, even if you still don’t think that he’ll make it out of that arena alive. In fact, you’d say that’s even more unlikely now.

Oh sure, the idea of star-crossed lovers is bound to stir the imagination of the Capitol crowd, and you absolutely won’t deny that it was a stroke of sheer genius. Inspired by the prospect of telling a tragic love story, and by the growing investment of the audience, you’re certain that the Gamemakers will try to keep the two of them alive if they can, in the hopes of making the death of either or both into something truly spectacular. But what most of the excited people milling around you probably won’t realize, is exactly how much of his precious allotted interview time Karkat had just dedicated to talking about Terezi. The purpose of his confession is clear. It propelled Terezi from someone undeniably brave, someone quirky and charming in her own prickly way, into an archetype, a part of a timeless story that anyone can sympathize and identify with. She’s out of reach, she’s the brilliant and impossible dream, she’s the person who doesn’t know how beautiful she is to a silent, faithful watcher, and the thing that was previously a disadvantage to her has now become part of this narrative. How could she possibly know about her shy admirer, when he’s never dared to speak?

And Karkat? The confession has made him sympathetic, certainly, his awkwardness and brusque manner now becoming part of the story as well, as the reason he never had the nerve to tell her before this point. No one could doubt that this boy, stumbling over his words and scowling in embarrassment, not exactly a looker and absolutely no charmer, but nonetheless possessed of an endearing sincerity, would find himself tongue-tied around someone so bold. In other words he’s painted himself as an inherently tragic figure, because even if he should find his love requited, it is now irrevocably doomed by circumstance. All he can hope to do – all he will be _expected_ to do, if he wants to remain sympathetic to the audience – is to sacrifice himself in the hope that she will live.

Barring the unlikely event that this is part of an even more complex and ruthless plan, Karkat Vantas just signed his own death sentence.

More important, however, is how he just announced to all of Panem that he would rather die than kill his fellow District Twelve tribute. Not in so many words, of course; he’d been clever enough not to use any rebellious language which would get him cut off, and he’d left the conclusion ambiguous enough that it could either be taken as an impulsive disclosure or a calculated move to gain sponsors. But when you recall the raw honesty in his voice as he said, _I can’t win_, you think the intention was clear enough. You don’t actually believe he meant that he’d lose something, his life or his love, no matter how the Games were to end. It’s much simpler than that. It’s much more complex than that.

He can’t win because he does not intend to, because he intends to die.

He can’t win because he has decided that being a victor is so much worse.

He can’t win. He won’t win. No one does.

You are quite literally snapped out of your reverie as Dirk loudly snaps his fingers an inch in front of your face. Blinking in surprise, but not flinching – you’ve been taught never to flinch, and to quickly identify if something poses a threat or not – you refocus your gaze to meet his. He raises his eyebrows further, pointedly, and the slight tilt to his head is half a question and half a statement of concern. Your quick head-shake is more a response to the latter than the former, a probably not entirely convincing assurance that there’s nothing to worry about. “Sorry, I was just thinking,” you say nonchalantly, shrugging. “Shit, did I say thinking? I meant swooning, of course. I mean damn, what kind of cynical bastard wouldn’t be convinced – against all evidence and in spite of having at least three adequate brain cells – of the power of love after a statement like that? So apart from you, I’d say that we all have learned something important and acquired all kinds of personal growth just now, and I’d like you to please respect that.”

Dirk is definitely giving you a Look, a sure sign that he understands that the real joke had neither been about you doubting the power of love _or_ at the expense of him being a cynical bastard, and everything to do with the implication that he already knows all about said power. You try not to call him out too much on it, knowing that the topic of love is complicated and treacherous ground for the two of you, raised in scrupulously determined scarcity to only nourish each other. If your love for a scruffy abandoned bird had been considered a transgression against such a philosophy, one dire enough to require an immediate and cruel lesson in transience and sacrifice, it’s not hard to see how falling in love with another victor would be absolutely unforgivable. That it’s also in itself an act of rebellion against the Capitol, an impossible reclamation of the victory he’d been promised and then denied, is as close to an excuse as Dirk will be able to assemble in his own defense. As long as loving Jake is a symbol, an idea, an act he performs as part of a long game against their oppressors, maybe it can be forgiven. You’re certain he has already convinced himself that’s all it is.

It’s not supposed to be like that anymore, a childish part of you insists angrily. You both already won the Games, you did everything you were supposed to do, and any weakness you might’ve showed along the way was overcome in time. It’s not fair to ask more of you, to demand that you keep living the rest of your lives as if the arena is still looming just ahead of you, forever fighting the impulse to need and want and love something, _anything_ more than what you’ve already got. After everything you’ve sacrificed, after everything you went without, don’t you at least deserve this?

But you know it doesn’t matter. Bro never said that you had to win, never promised you that you would. He taught you how to survive, made sure you knew that failure wasn’t an option, and that was all. He never said anything about what came after, neither warning you about the consequences nor suggesting that you’d be rewarded in victory. He never said that anything would change. If you’d interpreted victory as your one opportunity to stop fighting, to finally be free, then that’s your own mistake, and probably proof that you’re inherently destined to fall short no matter what you do. You’re acutely aware that you’ve always been the weak link. No doubt Dirk had known better; knowing exactly what’s expected of him and still trying to do more is a defining character trait of his. If he’d let you keep hoping for a reprieve that would never come, well, you cannot blame him. At the time, it was all he had to give you.

So you relent, an instead of pushing him further, you just say, “Shit was adorable, is what I’m saying.”

He’s quiet for a fraction of a second too long, and you can tell he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking, why you backed off so quickly. But two can play at the inscrutable game. The one advantage you always had on him and Bro is being unpredictable. “Absolutely. I’m all aflutter. Oh that I too had a cranky miner’s son profess his undying love to me right before he goes off to die of hypothermia alone in a crevasse. Some people have all the luck.”

You don’t flinch, because you’ve been taught not to, but he knows you far too well, and he sees you not flinching. Sighing, he carefully runs his fingertips along the lines of his impeccably styled hair, his eyes darting away from you. “Sorry,” he says. “That was unnecessarily crass.” But what he means is that he’s sorry he lashed out at you for teasing him, that he knows that you weren’t trying to chastise him, that you’re happy for him. He just hasn’t figured out how to stop chastising himself, how to be happy too, and no doubt he sees that as another reason to blame himself. You wish you could convince him that this doesn’t make him undeserving of love, but since you never fully managed to make him believe this about you, you very much doubt you’d have more luck in regards to Jake.

You also wish that either of you knew how to say what you actually mean. That this careful web of horseshit mind games and interminable shades of irony wasn’t necessary to convey the feelings you both pretend not to have as a matter of course. Shit’s exhausting.

“Oh, there you are.”

Someone behind you in the crowd suddenly slides his arms around your shoulders, pulling both you and Dirk into a slightly hunched position since he’s shorter than you. It could be taken as a friendly gesture, except you feel his fingers brushing across your nipple through the fabric of your shirt, and you know it’s not an accident. You don’t flinch, and neither does Dirk, because while you’ve been taught to identify the presence of a threat, you’ve also been trained to stand your ground when flight is not an option. Besides, threat or not, this guy is a complete tool.

“I wouldn’t have expected to be able to sneak up on two victors, let alone the notorious Strider brothers. You’re not losing your edge, eh?”

You’d absolutely known he was approaching, as had Dirk, and had chosen to disregard him until he decided to make himself known. Why should you care if he was dumb enough to think he might overhear anything of value, or enjoyed deluding himself into thinking he had any advantage over you which hadn’t been handed to him on a silver platter by the Capitol? Despite your complete lack of reaction, he laughs at his own joke as if he’d actually managed to get one over on you, and he’s not even being subtle about what his fingers are doing now. Without glancing sideways – you’d rather not – you know that he’s doing exactly the same thing to Dirk.

“Of course I don’t mean that. I have the utmost respect for your skills, as you know. Unlike most people here, I would never think myself better than any noble district citizen, and in fact I’m perfectly aware that when it comes to less sophisticated and, ah, _primeval_ arts, you could even be said to be superior.”

He winks, and it takes a herculean effort on your part to not groan loudly. This guy is a bottom feeder, in that while he’s rich, he’s not even important enough to be a paying patron. You don’t actually _have_ to put up with his shit. But he’s part of a group of Capitol citizens who _think_ they’re part of a resistance movement, because it gives them a thrill to play at sneaking around, or allows them to feel superior to their fellows, or simply – as with this guy – because it makes their dicks hard to imagine a future where they’re the chosen few survivors from the Capitol, surrounded by pathetically grateful district citizens. Fuck, you hope that he really does manage to survive the uprising, whenever it happens. You can’t wait to see his face when reality catches up with his slimy ass.

From what you understand, Rose has set up some kind of system to supply these wannabe rebels with misleading information and pointless tasks in an effort to keep them from blundering around and making trouble for the real resistance. Who knows, maybe once in a while she might even allow them to do something marginally significant, provided it’s not important enough to put her more carefully vetted people to the trouble and risk. But mainly the goal is to keep them distracted, so they don’t make a move before she is ready to use them – most likely as distractions and patsies. However, she obviously can’t associate directly with them; they do not have the sense to observe proper discretion, and it’s a given that President Scratch has someone watching them as well. It’s not an ideal situation, having to rely on a group of incompetent idiots who get off on feeling important to maintain a suitably low profile, and it’s occasionally prudent for you to mingle with them and make sure they’re staying put.

The Games are one of the two occasions when your stay in the Capitol isn’t completely contingent on your service to any one particular patron, and is therefore an excellent opportunity to drop in on your friends the would-be revolutionaries. Codakk is easy to manipulate, and his private fantasy of a future district harem means that he has developed a blatant and widely known obsession with Hunger Games victors. It’s almost too easy. Nothing suspicious about you and Dirk taking advantage of a horny idiot who is willing to shower you both with good food, drink, and just about any other substances you could possibly ask for, right? You’ll smile and nod at his pretend-rebellion talk with his equally vapid friends, it’ll be taken as read that you are humoring them for an evening’s enjoyment, and no one would seriously believe that anyone with a connection to any real insurgency would be caught dead with these twits. You’ll make note of their little schemes, particularly ones which may need some careful redirecting, and report back to Rose when she becomes available again. _Easy._

You pass by Jake on his way somewhere else, two women in jewel-encrusted catsuits practically dragging him along while communicating entirely in high-pitched shrieks of laughter. He doesn’t look away, and instead smiles a little bit sheepishly at Dirk, waggling his eyebrows at him as if sharing an unspoken joke. In return, Dirk only nods his head curtly, but you see his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. Codakk’s fingers slip under his shirt, and for a moment you’re almost afraid that Dirk will snap and break those grasping fingers like dry kindling. But the moment passes. Your brother’s eyes are switched off and far away.

Yeah. Easy.

* * *

Your last words during your interview feel like they’re still lodged in your throat, shifting around and digging further into your flesh like mice invading a larder. _T__here’s nothing I won’t do_, you’d said. Not that many hours before, you’d hurled a spear at the Gamemakers, and in that moment it had felt like reclaiming some part of the life they had stolen – or at least like taking a stand at the borders of whatever you still had left. It had been a move in the already ongoing Games, of course, but had you really been completely deluded in thinking it meant something more than that?

A private rebellion in a closed room, all risks calculated in personal gain or loss… You bare your teeth at the warm summer breeze, the little night sounds, the tinkle of the wind chimes, and you don’t even try to pretend that you’re smiling. So close to being reduced to an animal need for survival, you suppose that you’re allowed a toothy snarl or two.

_There’s nothing I won’t do to make sure of it._

Those words had been for Latula, so that she would know that you hadn’t forgotten your promise. But you suppose it would be pointless to act as if the phrasing doesn’t matter. You could have said,_ I will do everything in my power,_ could’ve softened your words somehow, but you didn’t. To stop at nothing to get out alive is the basic principle of the game, after all. It’s hardly a groundbreaking statement, when you think of it like that. It’s exactly what the audience wants to hear, sure, and it probably managed to make at least a few sponsors reconsider you. More to the point, it’s perfectly understandable for someone in your situation to throw all scruples aside and try to appeal to the blood lust of your captors. It’s what anyone would do… isn’t it?

You sigh where you lie, splayed out on your back in the middle of the Training Center roof, so far above the revelry of the city streets and with all sound decently muffled by the potted trees and bushes around you. The only thing that really breaks through the relative tranquility is the occasional loud bang which apparently is caused by fireworks. Exploding fire in the sky sounds like an absolutely terrible idea, but hey, it’s supposedly _pretty_ so obviously that makes it okay. Would you be an idiot if you were able to see too?

The problem is that just about anything is understandable when you’re forced into the extremes of the Games. You roll on your side, feeling the cool tile soothe your skin. Even that one truly monstrous victor you’d heard of, the one who won the Games two times before you were even born, once by killing all other tributes… even he probably had some kind of reason. Which is to say that yes, of course the careers are despicable, and whatever reason he’d had, you don’t doubt that it’s twisted and ugly. But isn’t that the point? Even a good reason, an understandable reason, is bound to distort and curdle when you’re forced to kill other children to achieve it.

You need to go back home to your little sister. Someone else is their mother’s only child. Someone has a sweetheart waiting, or a best friend, or hell, even a child of their own. How stupid to pretend yours is the only honorable intention – or to ignore that, whatever they are, the Capitol is using your intentions against you. Almost everyone has a reason to hold on to life, has their own little island worth protecting, and no one can be blamed for taking a stand at their own borders instead of seeing to the whole world. People are so easy to isolate. And so the district tributes fight one another to the death, and the people in the Seam resent the tradesmen in town for their relative wealth and safety, and the orphans envy the children who still have homes and families. Everyone stays on their islands; everyone tends to their own gardens; everyone draws borders around what little they have. Because no matter how sparse, everyone still has something left to lose.

You hate thinking about this. It’s pointless, because it’s not new. You had been born into the knowledge, had distilled it inside you in waves, like your mother’s liquor in between the heating and cooling of her still. At the snap of the rope pulling tight around her neck, the cold rain and hunger hollowing your body, the scream of the sirens as your father vanished forever into the earth, Latula’s midnight tears as she bit her pillow and tried not to wake you up. The meadow, the Hob, the mines, the community home. The game is rigged. _Of course_ the game is rigged. The house always wins. All you can do, on this last night before it claims you, is accept it and try to survive.

And, if possible, try to get some sleep.

But Karkat had to go out there and fashion himself a sword made of his own words, only so that he could nobly fall on it right in front of the entire nation. As if it matters. As if it has _ever_ mattered. As if attacking a Peacekeeper and getting yourself executed in front of the whole district will help anyone at all. As if stupid gestures like that have no consequences for the people on your own little island, the ones who aren’t asked if they’d like to be collateral in some greater battle, but are expected to just pick up the pieces once you’re gone and can no longer _help_-

You hiss in surprise at a sudden pain in your finger. The mockingjay pin Porrim gave you had been pinned to a shirt laid out on your bed when you changed out of your interview clothes, presumably because Tavros had gotten it back from the review board deciding if you got to wear it in the arena. Unthinkingly, you had clutched it so hard that you ended up undoing the pin from the latch and burying it in your finger. Fastening the pin once more, you then lift your finger to your lips and suck away the small drop of blood there, drawing in a deep breath and trying to calm down. You’d come up on the roof to try to pull yourself together in the first place. _This _definitely isn’t helping you sleep.

You could tell from the way he was breathing when you returned to the apartment that Karkat had expected you to be angry, to lash out at him, but you’d walked right past him as if he wasn’t there. You’d eaten in the privacy of your room, had answered no one when they knocked on your door, and eventually they’d been forced to give up. What could you possibly say, anyway? Are you supposed to _thank_ him for what he’d done? Well, that’s probably what the rest of your team had expected, now that you think about it. He’d given you yet another unexpected advantage, another substantial addition to odds which had been so pathetically feeble to start with. He’d effectively decided to sacrifice himself for you.

He’d made sure you would never be able to repay him. No matter what happens in that arena now, you will always be in his debt. If you survive… then everything you hold dear, both your own life and Latula’s, you will owe in no insignificant part to him. He couldn’t have come up with a way to humiliate and humble you further if he tried, and you don’t actually think he was trying at all. That’s almost the worst part.

The metal taste of blood is sharp on your tongue. The times you’ve tasted it before had usually been during or right after a fight, and so it has imprinted itself as restless flavor, a triumphant flavor, a proof of being alive and still fighting. Still fighting. God damnit.

His footfalls are soft but while laying so still up here, in this pool of tinkling, whispering almost-silence, you could still hear them. He hesitates for a moment close to where you’re lying, but when you don’t immediately tell him to fuck off he seems to take it as an invitation, and pads over to the marble bench right by your feet. You could probably kick him in the shins from your position, and you’re not going to rule it out just yet.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, as if that’s an explanation instead of a rather obvious fact, and quite frankly to be expected. If you can’t seem to manage it, it’s hard to imagine that someone as jumpy as Karkat could possibly get any rest tonight.

“Why?” you demand flatly. “Why did you do it?” As he draws in a deep breath, possibly to answer, you add, “And if you say it’s because you’re in love with me… well, you know that beating you were expecting after the interview? I can still change my mind on that. So watch it.” If he is, you really don’t want to hear about it. And if he isn’t… well, he probably isn’t. It really doesn’t matter, but you don’t want to hear him lie to you about it.

You hear a faint rustling, and you think he must’ve shaken his head. You flail your foot around a bit until you find his, and then prod it. “_Words_, Vantas. I’m blind, remember?”

He snorts quietly. “Like you let anyone forget.” Then he’s quiet for a bit longer. His foot moves away from yours, you hear him shifting, and then a faint grunt which seems to indicate that he’s slumped down on the bench. You wonder if the stars are out, and if he’s watching them – is it actually possible to watch the stars if people keep blowing stuff up in the sky? You wouldn’t know. Stars are a pretty abstract concept to you anyway, but everyone else sure keeps making a big deal out of them.

“If I’m going to die anyway, why wouldn’t I at least try to help someone else win?” he says, far too nonchalant and not at all convincing, making you grit your teeth.

“I thought Meenah had finally gotten you to stop talking like that. She’s right, it gets old.”

“Of-fucking-course it gets old for _her_,” he shoots back. “How many kids do you think she’s been in charge of who seriously thought they could win? I can see how she would be sick of hearing that defeatist shit every year, so sure, I try to shut up about it when she’s around. It’s called being fucking considerate, alright? But that doesn’t actually change anything. I’m still going to die. Might as well bet on someone else to succeed where I won’t.”

You don’t feel like arguing with him about this again, and if you’re honest you don’t actually have much in the way of refutations, so you change tracks. “And why me, then? I wouldn’t exactly say we’re friends, and you definitely don’t owe me anything. Why not… I don’t know, Karako?” You hear his small, surprised breath, and grin. “I’ve heard you talk to him a bit during training. I know this might come as a shock to you, but you’re really easy to overhear no matter where you are.”

“Well I don’t know,” he replies acerbically, “I think perhaps it would’ve had a somewhat different impact if I’d claimed to be in love with a twelve-year-old child. Call me crazy, but I don’t actually think that’s very endearing to most people.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He’s not getting a rise out of you. “If you wanted to help him instead, you’d’ve found some other way of doing it. And for being so young, he’s got a decent enough score, he climbs well, and he doesn’t seem easily intimidated. Oh, and he’s not blind. Why not go with at least somewhat safer odds, if you’re determined to be a bleeding heart about it?”

He shifts a bit on the bench, from the sound of it you’d guess it is to turn his face towards you, to look at you. “Why can’t you just assume it’s self-interest? If you win, at least my family will get some of the food you’re bringing home to the district. How doesn’t it make perfect fucking sense to try to help you?”

That irks you, for some reason, the way he seems to be edging around whatever other motivation he so obviously has. “And did it make sense that day in the rain too? Did it make sense when you _gave_ me your family’s food, even though you didn’t even know me?”

He falls completely silent for a moment, even stops breathing, and you’re not sure if that makes you feel triumphant or really angry with yourself for giving away that you knew. Does it make it better or worse, having him know that you’d worked it out? That you’re aware of how much you already owe him?

“How-?” he manages at last, voice strangled.

“Do I really have to tell you how to use your brain?” you demand. “Or have you_ really _never wondered why I make a point of sniffing people?”

“...you could… smell me?” He sounds either horrified or overwhelmed, you’re not sure. “Even in all that rain?”

You giggle, just to mess with him, and maybe also to cover up whatever conflicted mess of anger and defeat you’re currently wrestling with. “Blame your father for keeping you so clean. If you’d just smelled of coal dust and sweat and dirt like everyone else, I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell.”

“Oh.” An exhalation like you’d punched him in the gut… which is also something you’re not entirely ruling out. “...How long?”

“Since the first day at school.” You listen to his shocked silence, and tilt your head toward him. “What, should I have tried to write you a thank you note or something? Complimented you on the smell of your soap? Asked to be your girlfriend?”

He makes a strangled sound at the last suggestion, and alright, maybe that was petty and cruel of you. Maybe he really does have some kind of feelings for you. But if he does, you really don’t want to think about it, don’t want to know. He’d sounded so sincere, describing you in terms more flattering than you’re sure you deserve, as if trying not just to confess his own feelings but also make all of Panem fall in love with you as well. You know that you’re smart, know that you tend to stand out, but what right did he have to paint you as this person who is special just for existing, who is somehow stronger than everybody else? Doesn’t he understand what it’s like to suddenly have those kind of expectations forced upon you by someone you don’t even know, as if your responsibilities toward your sister weren’t heavy enough on their own? Now you’re supposed to accept his sacrifice and try to win the Games for him too, and he’d never asked you if you were okay with that.

“The moment our names are drawn during the reaping, the first person we’re meant to be willing to sacrifice is the other tribute from our district,” he finally says, uncommonly muted. “I don’t know how much of last year’s Games you wa- listened to, but that’s… the first fucking thing the victor did was go for the girl who was also from Two. He killed her before he did anything else, as if- as if that made it easier somehow.” Yes, you remember. You remember the snap of her neck breaking and the small noise of Latula’s throat contracting as if she was trying not to gag. You’d thought what a shame, because it really seemed as if that tiresome guy was going to have it all his own way. “They drag us up on the podium and make us shake hands, and that’s the moment we’re expected to accept that we’re supposed to want each other to die.”

“And is that really different from all the other tributes?” you ask, almost accusatory.

“It is to me,” he responds, his voice rough and worn, like the gravel on a well-traveled road. You hear skin rub against skin, and you can’t tell if he’s rubbing his shoulders as if he’s suddenly cold, or rubbing his face… or his eyes. “I mean fine, we’re not friends, but so what? I know who you are. I know I- I don’t want you to die. And now I’m supposed to pretend like I do, just because I don’t want to die either? Like these two things have somehow become mutually fucking exclusive just because we were both unlucky enough to end up here? Fuck that. Maybe it’s easier that way, but since I’m so unbelievably fucked anyway, why should I even give a shit?” You can hear the tremble of his breath as he forces it into his lungs, and how he fights the hitch in his voice. “Maybe I won’t die right away, maybe I’ll manage to kill someone else before I go, but that doesn’t mean I want to. They don’t- They… don’t get to tell me what I want. I want to _go home_.” His voice breaks. He sniffles wetly and chokes, has to sit up, throat thick and uncooperative as he continues. “I don’t want anyone to die, and fuck, I know how stupid that sounds. I’m not saying I’m better than anyone else, but at least I- I want them to know. I want them to know that I want you to live. That they can’t fucking change that, and they never will, no matter what happens in the arena. That there’s a limit to what they can make me do.”

_There’s nothing I won’t do..._

It’s unfair. It’s unfair how he’s decided to involve you in this, and even more so that you can’t even really blame him now that you know. It’s not just a statement, a pointless gesture; it’s his last chance of integrity before they take everything he has left. It’s a spear flung against injustice, even if he has no chance of hitting the mark. If you know that the noose and the drop is inevitable, it’s only natural to draw as much blood as possible and hope that maybe they’ll remember you. That you made some kind of difference. In a hollow life full of hunger and wanting, why not go without for a day or two more, if you think your own meager rations might save a life in someone else’s hands?

He gets up, still obviously trying to hold in his tears, even though he must know that you’ve noticed. “I’m going to try to sleep,” he croaks.

“Good idea,” you tell him, turning your face away, not even sure if he can see it or not considering how late it is, but not wanting to take any chances.

“You should too,” he tells you, and before you have a chance to snap at him, he’s already turning and walking away. But he stops for a moment, probably right by the door to the stairs. “Good night,” he says, and his voice is faint enough that you guess he’s still facing away from you. “And good luck.”

“Good night,” you say, but you really mean ‘goodbye’. Whatever happens tomorrow, that’s truly what this is. You wish you hadn’t made him cry, and all you can think of to apologize for what you’ve done is a feeble joke. “May the odds be ever in your favor,” you tell him, and you sort of mean it.

He lets out a brief, cynical laugh, and then the door slams behind him.

* * *

You’ve only seen short glimpses of a Launch Room on TV before, and of course never with a tribute inside it. You know there are cameras set into the actual launch tubes, but as far as you know they never show you what happens before that point, in the place your district has dubbed the Stockyard. You assume this is because the Gamemakers feel that it would spoil the impact of the reveal once the tributes are flung into the arena, if the audience was allowed to take part in their preparation. Instead the Capitol will sometimes broadcast TV specials where they revisit old arenas, including peeks into the rooms where the tributes get ready, the rooms containing the machinery that operates the arena events, and the Gamemaker control room. You never voluntarily watch TV outside of movies if you can help it, you get enough of it when it’s mandatory, but they will frequently leave the monitors on during lunch at school or during detention. It’s hard to avoid it.

The room is pristine and comfortable in a sterile kind of way, and after you’ve had a quick shower you sit down in a padded sofa and tell yourself you’re probably the first person ever to use it, unless one of the Avoxes that hovering in attendance had briefly used it to catch their breath at some point. You doubt it. You think back to your brief farewell to The Mayor this morning, how you’d briefly squeezed his hand as he handed you the shift you’re wearing now, unable to think of what to say. He’d solemnly signed his well-wishes at you once you let go, steadily meeting your gaze, before flitting out of the room like the reflection from a closing window, white robes fluttering behind him. The ones here you’ve never seen before; they avoid looking directly at you, and you can’t blame them.

You’re offered drink and light refreshments, and though you had to force yourself to eat breakfast on the hovercraft, and then force yourself to keep it down as the windows blacked out and the craft started to descend, you nonetheless try to eat and drink a little. This is the Hunger Games, after all. Hunger will find you sooner or later, and you don’t need to make it any easier. So you nibble on crackers and drink some kind of sparkling juice that has fresh raspberries and white flowers floating in the pitcher, and find that you can taste neither. You might as well be snacking on sawdust and rainwater.

Kanaya returns from wherever she had gone off to, carrying the clothes you’re going to wear. Without a word you strip down and let her assist you with dressing, even if the clothes are simple enough. Short pants, boots, a shirt and a light jacket with a hood, all of them in dark gray and black. The boots are made of some kind of soft, rubbery material and reach all the way to your thigh, where Kanaya shows you how to hook them onto your pants.

“I imagine it’s going to be very soggy out there,” she remarks. “Don’t trust the ground.” She then runs her fingers across the material of the rest of your clothes, frowning slightly. It shimmers very slightly as you move, and as she pinches one of the seams, it seems unusually stiff. “There’s something sown into it,” she says, puzzled. “It feels like… wire, maybe?”

“Some kind of reinforcement?” you suggest, and then pull a face. “Though who am I kidding, I’ve got no fucking clue.”

“Maybe,” she says doubtfully. “I’m not certain.” Whatever it is, it follows both your legs and your arms, around your neck and down the sides of your torso, even along the back of the hood. You can feel the slight resistance when you move, although it’s not exactly uncomfortable. Just strange. “Anyway, the shirt and pants are made of very breathable fabric, so if I were to make an educated guess, I’d hypothesize that the climate will be warm and humid. Especially since the jacket seems designed mostly to keep rain out.”

You nod that you’ve understood, but you don’t have the energy to say anything else. You stand still and quiet, staring at the ground, as she combs your hair away from your face and fastens it in a small ponytail. There are still a few tresses at the back of your neck that aren’t long enough, but you suppose the important thing is to get it out of your eyes, especially if you’re likely to sweat a lot up there. There’s a mirror on the wall, and you glance at it dully, seeing the way a couple of short bangs curl around your face, one of them dyed a bright shiny red. You look sick with nerves, and small, and utterly harmless. Great.

Kanaya silently takes you by the shoulders and leads you back to the sofa, wordlessly pushing your glass of juice closer. As you gulp it down, suddenly thirsty despite your nausea, she fastens your district token around your wrist. It’s a simple bracelet woven from several strands of sturdy cord – bow string, in fact, and you’re fairly certain that the only reason it had been allowed is that none of the composite strings were long enough to be used for that, or as a garrote. Stroking its surface and closing your eyes, you can clearly see your mother’s clever brown fingers dip and dive under each other, slide against each other as she braided. It’s fastened with a simple glass bead from a necklace your father gave her once, one which had been torn from her neck and scattered like glittering seeds far underground as she was rescued from the site of the mine explosion. Only this one remained, caught in the folded-up sleeve of her heavy coal miner’s clothes, and had become part of this simple gift for you a couple of years later. A token of survival, of grace, of sheer blind luck. Now it would follow you into the Games.

Your eyes burn and you feel tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, building in your throat, but you hold them back. It’s bad enough that you’d cried in front of Terezi yesterday, and you refuse to put Kanaya through that. Her eyes soften as if she knows what you were thinking, and she takes your hand between two of hers, squeezing it gently. You sit in silence as you wait, try to avoid looking at the launch tube which looms at the other side of the room. After a moment you slump forwards and hesitantly lean your forehead against her shoulder, not sure if this is inappropriate. But she lets out a quiet sigh and turns slightly, embracing you with no fuss, no sign of embarrassment, and you find yourself held secure in her soft arms, one of her hands rubbing your back in an almost maternal fashion. You curl up, breathing in the sweet spiciness of her perfume, the silky softness of her black sweater warming your cheek, and you allow yourself one last moment of vulnerability before the plunge.

No one will ever hold you like this again, after all. Why not let it happen?

Then a disembodied voice tells you to get ready for launch, and you reluctantly pull free and get to your feet. Your heart is beating hard as you walk over to the circular platform, but somehow it feels distant, as if the information is being relayed to you second-hand, with very little evidence to support it. Kanaya stands in front of you under the cold lights, adjusting your clothes one final time. “Thank you,” you tell her, and you mean it. You’re grateful for everything she has done.

She reaches out and lifts your chin with two of her fingers, offering you a tense smile. “Until we meet again,” she says, and then steps back. Even though you’re certain you won’t survive, her confidence in you still lifts your heart, and you manage a small nod.  
“See you,” you whisper hoarsely, and try to sound as if you mean it.

Then there is a sharp hiss, and the glass door to the tube slides closed. The platform starts to rise, and you close your eyes and breathe through your nose in an effort to manage the darkness, the enclosed space, the inevitability ahead of you. Soon there will be light and fresh air again, you tell yourself. Not this cold, dry, recycled breeze from nowhere, cooling the sweat on your face and making you shiver. Any moment now.

There’s a gust of warm air filled with the scent of trees and flowers, you hear the melodious cacophany of frogs singing, and you open your eyes. There’s… nothing. There’s blackness all around you, every bit as impenetrable as inside the tube. Hesitantly you reach out, careful not to lose your balance and step off the circle, half expecting to still feel glass and metal walls surrounding you, but your fingers find only air.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”

You force the seized-up muscles of your neck to move, trying and failing to make out anything at all around you. The other tributes, the Cornucopia, even the platform beneath you, but there’s nothing. Above you there’s no sun, no stars, no moon, not even the diffuse shape of clouds. You hear the beeping of the countdown, announcing every second that is bringing you closer to the sound of the gong. This is the time meant for the tributes to take in the lay of the land, to strategize, but how the fuck are you supposed to do that now? No, you realize, this is a waiting game. This is a test of nerves. All around you, unseen, the other tributes are silent, enduring the mounting pressure of the moment, and you know sooner or later, something is going to have to give. Someone is going to crack.

“I can’t see!” The wail comes from almost straight ahead of you, a boy’s voice, cracking with panic. “What’s happening? _I can’t see_!”

There it is. You press your eyes shut. Now everyone will know where he is, and just like that he’s broken the spell, tipped his hand, given the whole thing away. To your left, one of the tributes closest to you starts to hyperventilate. You hear the one on your right turning around, as if hoping to catch a glimmer of light anywhere. Somewhere right ahead of you, presumably, the Cornucopia awaits the usual blood bath, but you don’t even know how far away it is. The gong rings out, but no one moves. You all stand petrified, listening to the hysterics of the screaming boy petering out into ragged sobs.

Then you hear what you’ve been waiting for, rising jagged and sharp in contrast against with the gentle chorus of nature sounds. Somewhere out there in the darkness, Terezi is laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCREECHES i've rewritten that last part about 843829 times in my mind, trying to get it right. now it's finally done.


	17. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unjust world demands unjust people... is that it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FRIENDS. i'd say i'm sorry about that last cliffhanger, but y'all know i'm not. i'd honestly thought i'd be able to fit three different perspectives in this chapter, but tbh it's already over 6000 words and i wanted to prioritize getting it out in an at least semi-timely manner :P
> 
> the perspective order goes rose > terezi
> 
> (oh, and i made some approximate designs for a couple of the characters which i will link here. my art skills are COUGH not on par w my writing, but i thought you might be interested in knowing how i imagined them + their outfits anyway? MOSTLY BC Y'ALL KNOW YOU WANNA SEE JAKE'S SLUTTY CURTAINS i mean what
> 
> kanaya & terezi: https://thymechaos.tumblr.com/post/624564271796355072/started-making-character-arts-for-the-hs-hunger
> 
> roxy & jake: https://thymechaos.tumblr.com/post/624730367742607360/finished-my-hunger-games-au-roxy-jake-woop )

Smiling faintly, you lean back in your seat, watching the frozen circle of tributes as they attempt to come to terms with their new and unexpected circumstances. You’d known for almost two years that the tension of this moment was going to be truly unique, a feeling you will not classify as anticipation, because such a thing would of course be unconscionable. But while you might barter with your conscience over such details, you are not in the market for self-delusions, and thus refuse to deny the excitement which causes your fingers to slowly curl. Two years, yes, but you had no idea how spectacular this moment would prove until the female tribute from Twelve was drawn.

A number of high-tech monitors circle the control room, one for each Gamemaker on your elevated platform, from which you direct the technicians who have their work stations in the central area below. The monitors show direct input from the number of cameras which are currently active, giving a more detailed insight than the 3D projection of the arena which hangs suspended in midair at the center of the technicians’ pit. At this stage of the game, of course, you’re all expected to focus in pairs on the tributes of one particular district – should both tributes of the given district die, that team will split up and join the teams of tributes whose odds of survival are considered strong. The fewer the tributes and the closer to the end of the Games that you get, the more all decisions are made through a general consensus within the group, and the greater the veto power of the Head Gamemaker becomes. While he will oversee all from the very beginning, he will at first be more sparing with his direct interventions, trusting the judgments of his Gamemakers in how to handle the individual tributes in their charge.

There’s of course a few loosely agreed upon objectives which have already been settled upon at this stage, tributes of particular interest to be kept alive if possible, some pods containing challenges which are reserved for tributes with certain skill sets, and so on. But the goal of every Gamemaker is always to contribute to the sum of the spectacle, not to root for whichever tribute you are currently directing. A satisfactory death is every bit as good as a narrow escape, and it is up to each of you to decide which would serve the Games best – unless of course the Head Gamemaker thinks otherwise. In the end, the overall flavor and trajectory of the Games will be decided by him…

…well, ostensibly. Of course Scratch is the one who pulls his string as he pulls yours. You wonder how often they consider the problem with living puppets, which is that every once in a while, one of them might just pull the strings right out of their hands.

To achieve the desired results, you provide instructions to the three teams of technicians, who are in charge of the practical minutiae of the games. The smallest team is Pods, in charge of activating and controlling all the various traps and dangers which are either built into different parts of the arena or can be dropped in any location, depending on the scale of the pod. They also activate other game events, such as projecting the faces of the dead tributes in the sky every night, controlling the weather, and coordinating feasts. Since having more than even just one pod activated at the same time can make it hard to streamline the video output, the team doesn’t really have to be big to work effectively. It is mostly their job to wait for Gamemaker orders and make sure the pods will not do more damage than calculated.

That’s where you had started out, when you first began your career in the Games. The problem with most people drawn to those positions is simply that they’re far too focused on the tributes in the arena – because, of course, most of them are sadists in the purest sense of the word. You should know, you’ve sat close enough to most of them to be far too intimately aware of the fact. But you had known that what truly mattered was to focus on the Gamemakers, to anticipate their orders and thereby follow them with almost inhuman speed and precision. You had proved that you were excellent at thinking like a Gamemaker, until it had only seemed natural that you were elected to be one.

Then there’s Physlocation – PL, or Pull – who track the individual positions of the tributes and their physical status, and who handle the logistics of distributing sponsor gifts, activating the cannon that signals another death, and ordering hovercrafts to remove corpses. Roxy is currently perched on the corner of a desk in the Pull section, watching the overhead screens that show the actual video output going out all over Panem, their face unreadable even to you. They’re expected to be present for the start of the Games, until the first hovercraft is deployed to pick up the bodies left by the bloodbath. From that point on, they have their own team to direct in reassembling the bodies of dead tributes as best as they can, waiting on standby to personally make sure that the victor doesn’t die, and to minimize whatever damage is left by the arena on the Capitol’s new plaything. But they will also keep in constant contact with Physlocation, to provide expert assessments on the physical status of tributes considered to be at risk, so that you and the other Gamemakers will know what to expect from them.

The largest team is Audiovisual, AV, headed by Jane. With the truly ludicrous amount of cameras and microphones located around and above the arena, it is incredibly necessary to have a constant rolling roster of technicians to monitor each and every tribute location provided by Pull. All of this is organized into one cohesive tableau of information by Jane, who is often expected to make split second decisions concerning which cameras to prioritize in every given moment, though ultimately each decision on which tribute to follow in the live broadcast is another of the Head Gamemaker’s duties. Just like you once were, Jane is expected to anticipate his decisions and be ready to provide whichever angle will provide the most continuous narrative and drama, but also juggle information on relative tribute location from Pull and pod effect area and trajectory from Pods. On top of that, she also has to keep communicating with the team responsible for AV in the Capitol, so that audience reactions and expert panels can be shown in whatever corner of the screen which will currently obscure the ongoing action the least

As if you weren’t already utterly in awe of her abilities, the challenges presented by these particular Games are beyond anything Jane has handled so far, and she’s performed above and beyond all expectations. In previous Games, after all, a majority of the tributes wouldn’t be active during the night, and those who were tended to be the ones with access to some kind of light source. So while the cameras had been functional enough during the hours of darkness, the image quality simply had not been what the audience expected from the Hunger Games, and would not do for an entire Games taking place in darkness. Which meant that at the end of the Games two years ago, when one Gamemaker had the happy stroke of genius which led to these Games, and it had been decided that this particular arena was too uniquely suited for the show to pass on... Well, suffice it to say that Jane had been carelessly thrown to the wolves in the process, and to mix your metaphors completely, had been left to sink or swim with little to keep her afloat apart from her own talent and almost superhuman determination. Everyone else had to scramble as well, of course, since Games are normally planned several years in advance and a change this major on such short notice involved a hellish amount of work. But even so, it did not compare to having to completely reinvent the technology used to record an entire arena. Jane was either going to have to perform a miracle, or take the fall for decisions that had been made for her.

And a miracle is exactly what she performed. To compensate for the lack of colors and details in the dark, she and her team – together with a couple of brilliant inventors from District Three – had come up with a method of refining each video stream in real time, using all that complicated computer nonsense you had never been interested in to provide what the cameras simply cannot pick up in the almost completely lightless conditions. That had been the reason for the extended tracking equipment in the tribute clothing, since there is only so much computers can do to predict the finer points of the tributes’ movements. Adding together the information from high-tech night vision cameras and heat signature cameras, the limb tracking technology then overlapped this with 3D approximations created from stealth footage already taken of the tributes and previous extensive plotting of the layout of the arena. The results were practically indistinguishable from the real thing.

Yes, the images now broadcasted all over Panem have a very slight grainy twilight quality, but are otherwise fully discernible – honestly you think the dusky blue tone only adds impact. The live broadcast had started in complete darkness which lasted for several seconds, drawing out the confusion of the audience in manner similar to that of the tributes, only to slowly fade into the images now flickering by on the overhead screens, showing the panicked and disoriented tributes as the professional voice of Marvus Xoloto explains the dark arena to his captive audience. After the announcement of the start of the Games, of course, the presenter’s voice is only broadcast to the TV audience, leaving the tributes quite literally in the dark. But you had counted on at least one of them to panic and give it all away, and hadn’t been disappointed.

As the girl from Twelve starts laughing, Jane doesn’t even have to give the order; one of her crew on visuals immediately zooms in on her face. Jane in turn barely even glances at Kurloz as he inclines his head at her, allowing the feed to momentarily linger on how the other tributes react to the eerie laughter, the panic creeping over their whole bodies, before letting Terezi Pyrope’s face dominate every TV screen in the country.

Even with her face free of the make-up from her public appearances as well as her glasses, her high cheekbones and sharp chin give her features a foxlike cast, which is only enhanced by her laughter. You’d noticed before that her skin could almost be called ashen, the pallor no doubt caused by a consistent shortage of nutrients which a mere week in the Capitol had not been able to remedy – at least the effect is softened by an irregular smattering of freckles left there by the touch of the sun. Two tight braids running along the sides of her head are clearly intended to keep most of her hair away from her face, you assume entirely for comfort’s sake. And for the first time, you see her eyes. You’re a little surprised by the classically beautiful shape that her stylist had nonetheless elected to hide; monolidded, with a dramatic upward sweep at the corners, perfectly balancing the thin, lofty arches of her eyebrows. But you suppose they wanted to refrain from making a spectacle of them, since now that they are wide open, you can see the milky film covering her dark irises and the way they’re so very obviously unfocused. Still, opening them must be a deliberate choice of hers, and it’s hard not to feel stared at through the camera as she tilts her head back and hunches over slightly, clutching at her abdomen as her shoulders shake with laughter.

That surprises you as well. As terrifying a sound as it must be to the other tributes, you can tell that the laughter really isn’t forced in any way, not calculated specifically to frighten, although you’re sure she knows of the effect it’s having. It’s genuine laughter, clearly the product of relief and hope and desperate, uncontrolled amusement at the twisted irony of the situation. If there’s a bit of a cynical edge to it, well, that’s understandable. She’s a clever girl, and even in this moment of triumph she must know that her survival isn’t guaranteed; nor do you think she has forgotten about the overall tragedy she is playing a part in. Even so, it’s real and spontaneous, and thus takes her a while to get under control.

Not that it matters much. The other tributes stand like deer at bay as long as the sound lasts, rigid with terror of a predator they had not expected, so many of their advantages turned to weaknesses in a flash. The careers in particular must feel it, since they’re as a rule much bigger than the other tributes, and what a cruel joke indeed that this should be to their distinct disadvantage now.

That, of course, was something you had taken into consideration when you voted in favor of turning these Games dark, two years ago. An opportunity to strip the careers of some of their advantages and even the field a bit had seemed too good to miss. You’re not sure if the other Gamemakers had thought of it at all, or if they had simply been enchanted by the exquisite drama of Dave managing to defeat his last opponent while blinded, excited to run with the concept and put their own spin on it.

It had been an intense battle, certainly. Even with Dave’s striking resemblance to his older guardian and his proven skills in battle taken into consideration, you have to admit that you had not expected him to win when it came down to it. Standing there with the contours of his face distorted by hideous blisters, and with rapid swelling setting in, he’d been trying so hard to keep his streaming and violently bloodshot eyes open despite the obvious agony it caused him. A skinny boy with a couple of broken ribs, clutching half a sword in hands that thankfully had only received minor burns, clearly barely able to see even after he’d clawed his doused sunglasses off. His opponent had been weakened by drinking contaminated water and had entered the arena with an already damaged leg, but was otherwise mostly uninjured, and while only armed with an iron bar, it nonetheless had better reach than Dave’s halved blade.

Apart from the AV team, everyone around you in the control room had gone still. Kurloz’ hand was raised in a command that wasn’t necessary, because no one was going to try to interfere with this. When you could tear your eyes away from the live feed for a moment, the footage from the Capitol showed the same thing. Crowds, hushed and silent. Sponsors transfixed. Every single mentor and escort staring at the screens and holding their breaths. Well no, there were two exceptions. One mentor had her face demonstratively turned away as she swigged liberally from a bottle. Another nodded briefly, leaned back, and looked like he was waiting for something. You honestly couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open behind the opaque surfaces of his shades.

Though it had seemed impossible, Dave had come out of it alive, and the Capitol audience had been ecstatic. Personally, what impressed you the most wasn’t even the physical feat of managing to fight an attacker he could barely see; you’re fairly certain that Dave had exaggerated his injuries, playing up his delayed reaction time and moving more clumsily than necessary, until his attacker had made the mistake of getting too close. _Then_ Dave had moved with the same precision as before, impaling his assailant in one swift thrust, and you wonder if it had felt as effortless as it looked. If that was why he’d just stood there, his hands now empty and shaking with adrenaline, as if he couldn’t even hear the cannon firing or the loud cheering from the Capitol being played across the speakers. He certainly didn’t notice the ladder from the hovercraft as it was dropped in front of him, and Jane had been merciful enough to briefly cut away from him when the retrieval team had to wrestle him to the ground and sedate him. She had thrown in a flurry of clips of cheering crowds, a stony Dirk after someone on site in Two had shoved a camera in his face, Dave’s mentor getting to his feet and walking away from the celebrations. Then she returned to Dave, now peacefully unconscious, his maimed and blurred features relaxed by the gentle touch of oblivion, as he was carried aboard the craft that would take him to his first stop on his journey home.

In the background, you could just make out the claw dropping from a second hovercraft, picking up the limp body of another dead tribute. He, too, was going home.

In the present, you watch the new tributes from Two on your monitors, since you and your current team member are responsible for their fates. The girl sets her face like granite, trying to overcome the effects of the unnerving laughter, shoulders braced as she steps off her platform and starts to awkwardly make her way toward the Cornucopia. It’s there of course, in the middle of the circle of tributes, because there still needs to be a bloodbath. The boy from Two curls his lips in a silent snarl, tension evident in his posture, some strange mixture of wariness and rage. He’ll be more cautious, you think. Despite his parting – and indeed only – words during the interview, he’s a bit too clever to just charge in. He’ll be the harder one to deal with.

Because of course you intend for them both to die. You try to think of it like that, clinically, as if it’s really that simple to kill children. For now you’ll delay the no doubt phenomenal nightmares you are building up to, putting them on hold for a couple of weeks until you’ll once again have the luxury of a full night’s sleep. That way you’ll be able to truly savour whatever horrors your mind will unleash upon you. For now you’ll down the chemical concoctions which allow Gamemakers to survive the weeks of the Games on as little sleep as possible, and think of the steps ahead as just that, simple tasks you need to perform in order to achieve your goal. One foot in front of the other, your head raised high so you won’t be able to see what it is you’re treading on.

You glance over your shoulder. Along the wall behind you, the personal assistants of each Gamemaker wait to supply their superiors with whatever you might need to ease the heavy workload and strict schedule ahead of you. Eridan raises an immaculate eyebrow at you, then inclines his head in the barest fraction of a nod. Not a trace of petulance, not now. He does so like having a purpose, after all. And you need him.

On the overhead screens, Terezi Pyrope has finally stopped laughing, but she’s still grinning as she steps off her platform and slowly saunters forward. She’s in no rush. Her step doesn’t falter as a jagged exclamation – “_Please_.” – is abruptly cut short somewhere to her left, and the boy who screamed previously is expertly choked to death from behind by the girl from One. The first kill is hers. District Eight has lost one tribute.

The Games have started for real.

* * *

You walk forward, assuming that the Cornucopia must be somewhere up ahead, because it would be unnecessarily complicated to change its location. After all, you’re sure the Capitol audience would quickly become disenchanted with this particular twist on the Games if all they got to watch at the outset was a lot of unarmed children stumbling around in the dark and looking for the weapons and food. Not very exciting, certainly. No, you’re guessing that in general the layout of this arena will be relatively predictable, and no doubt it’s a fairly small one as well, since it otherwise would be far too easy for the tributes to simply hide from each other.

Not that you think they won’t use the darkness against the tributes; no doubt there are plenty of traps out there specifically designed to take advantage of it. But the great news is that you are exactly as vulnerable to dangers like that in these conditions as you would in a brightly lit arena. The same cannot be said of your competition.

Your advantage is at its greatest right now, and will steadily sink the longer you spend in the arena. Right now, to judge by the previous screaming and the reactions of the rest of them, they cannot see at all, and unlike you they are not used to compensating for this fact. But you have no way at all to know how dark the arena is, and you wouldn’t really be able to understand it even if someone were to tell you. So maybe their eyes will adapt and they’ll be able to see more, apparently that’s something that happens. Even if they don’t, they’ll learn how to rely less on their eyes the longer they spend in the dark, and they’ll have time to calm down from the worst panic. Add to that the fact that you’re still far, _very_ far, from an expert on wilderness survival, and the longer you’re forced to live off the land the weaker you’ll be… time is your greatest enemy right now. You’ll need to take advantage of the good luck you’ve been granted while it lasts.

Meaning you need to get to the Cornucopia relatively quickly, and lay your hands on a weapon and some supplies. That at least isn’t a problem. You can hear quite a few walking in the same direction as you, but some are obviously still hesitating, and others you think might be searching the area between the platform and the Cornucopia for the resources which are usually strewn about there. Avoiding a battle in these circumstances isn’t a bad strategy, but not one you’re planning to employ. The fact of the matter is that everyone else is being painfully loud, while your slow and steady pace means that your feet are hardly making a sound. As long as you don’t get into close quarter grappling you’re confident that you can win a fight against anyone else in this arena right now, and there’s no chance in hell that they’ll be able to sneak up on you.

Get supplies, get armed, get out. Obviously you cannot hold the Cornucopia all on your own, meaning you’re going to have to brave whatever unknown horrors surround you. You can smell greenery, and the heavy pungence of stagnant water, so you’re sure you’ll have a great time trying to figure out where you can put your feet without sinking.

Ahead you can hear someone tripping over something, letting out a hastily muffled curse, and then the smack of a palm against a hard surface followed by the low ringing of something large and made of metal. Your grin widens. How nice. Someone found the Cornucopia for you. Slightly altering your course to the left so you won’t risk walking too close to your unwitting helper – it had sounded like the boy from Four – your outstretched hand easily finds the side of the giant metal horn. Hastily examining the tilt of as much of the surface as you can reach, you realize you’re at the side of it, and it seems like continuing left will be the best way to get to the mouth – and the sounds of rummaging in that direction suggest the same thing. To your right you hear District Four attempting the same kind of examination, but he sounds like he’s going to take a little longer, no doubt questioning his own judgment in the dark. Since you thankfully won’t have to navigate around him, you’ll happily leave him to it, keeping your fingertips against the side of the Cornucopia as you follow it, stepping carefully so as not to trip over any stray piece of the bounty.

You unsurprisingly do find a bag after about twenty paces, but after a quick examination you conclude that most of it seems to be taken up by some kind of tent. Working out how to raise it by feel alone would be far too time-consuming and futile, and anyway, lugging something that bulky around with you with little room for anything else seems like a bad idea. You’ll have to take your chances and hope you can find shelter elsewhere. At least the air is if anything oppressively warm and humid so far.

You do unclip the tube of cloth that must be some kind of bedroll or sleeping bag from the top of the bag, because it has a horizontal strap running along its length which is easy enough to slip over your head so it hangs under your arm. Since this place seems so muggy and wet, you’d prefer to have something that will hopefully keep somewhat dry while you sleep.

There’s at least two other tributes by the mouth of the Cornucopia – the sounds of all the piled-up stuff sliding around makes it hard to tell exactly. But the one closest to you is breathing too fast and harsh, easy to pick out, and from the racket they’re making you can tell they’re letting panic get the best of them, making them rush their search and probably not taking enough time to figure out what they’re touching. The girl from Nine, maybe? She should really have known better than to go this far in. But she’s easily avoided, and you carefully navigate your feet around the random humps and bumps on the ground, hunched over, hands gliding over everything you find. A backpack seems to at least hold a wider assortment of items than before, and you quickly sling it onto your back, clipping it in place so that it won’t slide off and will with some luck hold your sleeping bag in position as well. Right. Now you need a weapon.

The nearest tribute makes a small sound – a hastily stifled sob, but not hastily enough – and appears to be just tearing stuff out of a bag and throwing it on the ground now. “Why is there no-” she whispers, voice taut with panic, and you suddenly understand. She had hoped there would be some kind of light source by the Cornucopia, and that if she could find it fast enough she would have an advantage. Idiot. The one person carrying a light in the darkness is not at any kind of an advantage, that’s obvious even to you. They’re a _target_.

You hear footsteps approaching, and shrink backwards into the mouth of the Cornucopia, until you can press your back against its inside wall. You hear the girl from Nine let out a yelp and try to stumble away, but she appears to get caught on something. At least that’s what you assume, from the sudden sound of frantic trashing and loud sobs. They rise into shrill screams of pain and fear as something swishes through the air and hits her body, the ground, all the stuff she’d strewn around her, pounding and pounding indiscriminately inexorably like the surge of your heartbeat in your ears, your lips, your clenched fists.

The air fills with the sickening smell of blood. You need to find a weapon before the girl’s drawn-out death finally comes to a close. You need to _move_. Both the killer and the dying is making so much noise, this is a perfect opportunity to get your hands on something before it’s too late. You force your limbs to comply, searching through the piles of packs, the boxes and sacks of food, the racks full of weapons. You find an array of crossbows – a sick joke, really, considering the circumstances – cut your finger on an unsheathed sword, jam a dagger you find into one of the side pockets on your backpack, pass by a short throwing spear that won’t do you much good, and _finally_ find what you’re looking for when the girl’s screams are at last silenced by a grotesque crunching sound which you have to assume was her skull cracking.

A suitably long spear, light, so light that you’re fairly sure that it won’t be much good for throwing, but absolutely perfect for your purposes. That’s all you can really take in right at the moment, because the scent of blood feels like that sticky gruel they served at the Community Home, clinging to the back of your throat and seeming to swell into a lump you can barely breathe around. The killer hasn’t moved yet, their breathing controlled but still heavy, and they’re blocking your way out. It’s possible you could sneak by them, but you don’t want them at your back, just in case you end up making some kind of sound. You don’t want to find out which will win out, your greater skill at running without being able to see, or – judging from where the breathing seems to come from – their much longer legs. You also don’t want to run with a very sharp spear in your hand at all, not if you don’t have too.

Your calculations aren’t nearly as cool as you’d like to tell yourself, chasing themselves through your head in a noisy rush, and it takes you a moment to register that you’re hearing something else. Something on the other side of the Cornucupia wall just beside you, soft and hard to properly identify. You carefully lean your head against it, pressing your ear to the slightly cool metal, and the sound becomes a dragging noise. Someone is, just like you had, using the Cornucopia wall to guide themselves. Well, the boy from Four must’ve heard the noisy slaughter, right? It makes sense that he would move in that direction – at least it makes sense for a career.

“Who’s that?” It’s the killer, identifying herself as the girl from District Two, and also a moron. She must feel secure in the knowledge that she just managed to make a kill, and that whoever is creeping around out there probably isn’t armed. Weapons are usually almost exclusively reserved for the area right in front of and inside the Cornucopia. As if being armed would help her at all if someone gets the drop on her, after she so willingly supplied her position to them.

“Two?”

“Four.”

His voice seems to come from higher up now, as if he’s straightened himself out of a crouch. “The alliance still holds, right?”

“‘Course it does,” she grunts. “Was wondering what kept you. Here, go get yourself armed and I’ll stand guard. If there’s two of us, we’ll be able to hold it, and Twelve can choke on her creepy fucking laughter.”

_T__oo late, _you think. But as the boy lets out a huff of amusement and starts clambering over the bounty in the Cornucopia, closer to where you’re hiding, you realize that the situation has gotten a lot more complicated. With two of them holding their position here, you won’t be able to kill one of them without the other one being alerted, and you will lose the element of surprise. And if you have to waste your time fighting a more prepared opponent, someone else might try to come at you from another direction. You bare your teeth against the night, frustrated. You might have to take your chances and sneak past them both.

Unless you can kill Four when he gets further in, thus luring Two inside, where no one can come at you from behind? After that, you should be able to slip unhindered into the night. Your fingers tighten around the shaft of your spear, until your knuckles and fingertips hurt. It’s not a bad plan, you think, and you don’t even know if the taste of blood in your mouth comes from the air being saturated with the stink of it, or if you’ve managed to bite through your lip. Four is slowly getting closer to you, clumsy in the cluttered space. Time to make a decision. Except it’s not a decision, is it? Is it really a choice at all?

In your head, you hear Latula’s voice shredding and crumbling as she screams her throat raw; screaming your name, over and over again as she’s dragged to the back of the crowd. The memory should take away your hesitation, but it doesn’t. Instead it only echoes of other voices, the occasional inevitable breakdowns that follows a tribute’s name being called. Mothers, fathers, siblings, sweethearts, friends. Every year, there’s always at least one person who cannot maintain the weary cattle silence of the crowd when a loved one is ripped from their lives. You’d always seen it as a sign of weakness, not managing to be strong for the tribute in question, but in truth you had nonetheless never blamed them. Even when there’s only silence, it’s not as if you all can’t hear the screams that aren’t there.

Everyone has someone. This boy surely has at least one person who right now is leaning closer to their TV in horror as he approaches you, unaware of the danger he’s walking right into. It’s not right; it’s not just. There is no justice at all in the world, and you’d be naive to start looking for it here. At home, Latula is watching too, waiting for you to kill or die. What choice do you have?

There’s a heavy thud and another revolting crunching sound, and the boy only has time to let out a trembling breath before he collapses forward, his body hitting some kind of crate which shatters beneath him. A moment later, you can feel the sickly sweet scent of bruised fruit mingling with the blood. “_Alliance_,” mutters the girl from Two in disgust. “Should’ve known better than that.”

The inside of the Cornucopia is stuffy, the moist air seeming to cling to your skin, but you only feel cold. Well, she solved that problem for you, didn’t she?

She grunts slightly and you hear her bend down, probably to check that Four is properly dead, since there won’t be any cannons until the bloodbath is over. Right now, she expects to hear anyone else who might approach, and she expects them to come from behind her back. She definitely doesn’t expect the tip of your spear, which you aim just below the sound of her breaths, and which at first sinks into her neck as if it was made of butter. Then there’s a faint scraping as the metal encounters her spine, and as she lets out a horrible gurgle you feel hot blood spraying all over your hands.

There still is no real justice in here or anywhere else. But this is the closest thing the boy from Four will ever get.

When you almost bump into someone on your way out of the Cornucopia, you don’t hesitate, but this time you don’t aim to kill. The sweeping blow with the butt of the spear knocks them over, and your quick jab with the point finds some kind of resistance which you think might be a foot. There’s an agonized whimper, but you’re not staying. As you pass your fallen opponent, you feel a draft of air against the sweaty skin on your wrist, as if someone just ran past you. You make a swipe in that direction, but find only empty air… and just possibly, the sound of light footfalls hastening away from you, barely heavier than the scampering of a bunny. Karako? Had he been hiding in the darkness with you the whole time? If he did… could he even have killed you on his way past just now?

No, you don’t have the luxury to think about it. You need to escape, and not just because this is a stupidly dangerous place to be and there'll be more tributes here soon. If possible, and as unlikely as that seems, you want to never return again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you watched the movies, you miiiiight have noticed that i made some p substantial differences to the layout of the control room. this is partly bc i tend to follow the hg books more than the movies, and the books... don't actually mention what the area looks like. and as much as i do actually like the movies, the gamemaker control room just seemed WILDLY UNREALISTIC to me? like the games are SUCH a big production, and they're gonna tell me that such a small team can manage the whole thing? nah. so i made up what i thought would be more likely.
> 
> also, the books always gave me the impression that the actual gamemakers were more like a committee in charge of deciding what the games will look like and what will happen during their course, rather than a bunch of technicians who just do what the head gamemaker says, like it looks in the movie? and since that's what i've gone with up until this point, i'm sticking with it since it does not contradict the books in any way.


	18. Ignis fatuus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you more afraid of the things that hide in the dark... or the reason they're hiding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. a somewhat long wait, but also a definitely long chapter o/ going from writing arena stuff to capitol stuff is like... emotional whiplash between two different kinds of horrible? it's great :|
> 
> the order is karkat > dave

As vulnerable as the darkness makes you feel, as shaken as you are, it doesn’t really change your immediate plans. There was no version of events at the start of the Games that could’ve convinced you to run for the Cornucopia, and though Meenah had told you to simply get the fuck away the moment the gong rang, you have enough experience of the wilderness to know exactly how much of a difference even a couple of simple tools will make for your chances of survival. You’re fast for your size. You’d already decided to take your chances and grab anything close by that seemed useful before running, with the hope that everyone else would be busy trying to take out more obvious threats.

You try to tell yourself that the darkness is in fact working in your favour as you make your way forward as fast as you’re able on your hands and knees. No one by the Cornucopia will be able to spot you, the chance of being hit by any kind of projectile is now astronomically small, you are good at moving silently, and while you are definitely slowed by the darkness, so is everyone who isn’t Terezi. It’ll be harder to find anything useful to grab, but you’ll have more time to do so, and your chances of getting away alive have definitely increased.

All of it is true, all of it is logical… and it all means exactly jack shit in terms of actually slowing your pounding heart or taking the edge off the cold horror digging its claws into the back of your neck. When you were little, you’d sometimes wake up in the middle of moonless winter nights, far after the evening’s electricity had been shut off, when the fire downstairs had burned into smoldering embers and your parents had snuffed the lamps in order to save on kerosene. That was before Nepeta had been born, and you were alone in the small loft room, unable to hear the soft sounds of your parents sleeping below. Apart from your own heartbeat and shallow breaths, the world around you was completely silent, and that was the worst part. Because as you lay completely still in your nest of blankets, frozen in terror, it wasn’t of anything that might be lurking in the dark. What had terrified you to your core, you remember, was the thought that there was nothing there at all. That apart from you and your bed, the world had gone away, and you would be alone in the silence and the darkness forever.

After the mine accident, the darkness had invaded your dreams, though now it was much more violent. Not an absence, but a deadly, unbearable presence; a threat in itself. Sometimes you were trying to save your mother or Porrim’s wife, other times you were inexplicably there in their place, but it always ended the same way, with the countless tonnes of silent rock pressing down on your body, the darkness entering your lungs and filling your blood with a nothingness of oxygen. As you woke from darkness to darkness, gasping for air and far too incoherent to put your terror into words, Porrim had always been there. _I know, I know,_ she’d murmured as she rocked you in her arms, a safe harbour within the empty void, and you think maybe she dreamed of the darkness beneath the earth too. You do remember that you never saw her sleeping at night back then.

Well, now it’s not the nothing or the choking grave of coal and rock that haunts you. As you push forward, hands searching for anything to take with you, you try not to hear the other tributes moving around you, or the awful sounds of the brief and brutal scuffles that occasionally break out, but it’s no use. Somewhere out there, probably by the Cornucopia, someone starts screaming in pain and terror, and there is no way for you to shut out the rhythmical thumping of something heavy hitting flesh and earth. It’s a girl’s voice, and you assure yourself it’s obviously not Terezi, but… but then again how the fuck would you know what Terezi would sound like if she was being beaten to death? Would you even know the difference?

You feel the pressure of bile in your throat and have to swallow hard around the impulse to gag. Don’t think about it. You can’t afford to think about it. You have to find equipment and get away. If you just focus on what you’re doing, that means you get to leave this place sooner.

The first thing you find appears to be a packet of some kind of food. You grimace impatiently, because while welcome, it won’t have a very lasting impact. Even so you shove it down the side of your left boot and keep crawling. Next is a small pouch containing a small bottle which you hope and pray is tincture of iodine, a bundle of bandages and a small packet of some kind of pills, most likely pain killers. You wrap the strap around your wrist and feel heartened by the find, even if it is relatively small. If you can just find something a bit more substantial, you can grab it and get as far away from the Cornucopia as you can. You try to fix that thought in your mind as you continue to push through your terror, because even a rudimentary plan is better than being directionless in a world without light. It’s something to hold on to. In between your stifled breaths and hammering heart, you could almost swear that you can hear Porrim whisper _I know, I know,_ and you hold on to the thought that somewhere far away in District Twelve, she’s still watching over you. In some small way, you’re not alone in this darkness.

The plan, such as it is, works just fine right up until the moment you wrap your hand around the strap of some kind of bag, and almost immediately feel someone tugging it away from you. You react instinctively, tightening your grip and yanking hard, somehow managing to pull it out of their grasp, forcefully enough that it hits you in the chest and knocks you on your back. Cold with terror, you wait for whoever it is to descend upon you, to let the darkness into your head and through your skin, making it last forever. But the moment doesn’t come, and as as you scramble hurriedly backwards you can only hear quiet, restrained breathing in the darkness. Right, anyone crawling around this far away from the Cornucopia isn’t going to be among the strongest contestants, and probably isn’t eager to attack another tribute without knowing who they are. They can’t know it’s just you. Almost weeping with relief, you gather the bag to your chest and stumble to your feet, starting to run back in the general direction you came from. You’re just going to have to hope this bag holds something useful, because you no longer have the strength or the nerve to stay.

You trip over one of the platforms and take a painful spill onto the spongy but compact ground, but you don’t slow down, running until branches start slapping your face and the sound of your footfalls gains a distinctly wet quality. Then you adopt a more careful pace, suddenly remembering what Kanaya had said about not trusting the ground. Just in time, apparently, because only a few steps further into the dense vegetation you can feel the ground starting to suck at your feet every time you lift them, each time letting go with an unpleasant squelching noise. It’s way too loud, and you flail around until you can locate one of the intrusive tree limbs trying to poke you, then hold onto its slimy bark until you find your way to the tree it belongs to. Right by the tree, as you’d hoped, the ground is a little bit less on the verge of becoming a liquid. So you set out in this manner, moving awkwardly and painfully slowly from tree to tree, but at least it doesn’t seem like you’re being followed.

You wonder what’s in the bag you managed to take, but you really don’t dare to slow down and rummage through it just yet. You think, unbidden, of the sensation of it almost being tugged out of your hands, and how you hadn’t hesitated for a moment in tugging it back. It seems a monumentally stupid thing to feel ashamed of, more like a breach of manners than any real transgression, but your nagging mind won’t allow you to let go. It reminds you that there might in fact be something in the bag that could make the difference between life and death in this place. Where does the line go for complicity, for what part you play in someone else’s death? If you snatch food out of the hands of the starving, it’s not much different from aiming a gun at them – and at least bullets kill fast, so you could almost call a gun a merciful option. Except, well, a starving person might still find food against all odds, right? It’s not very likely, but it _could_ happen. Maybe someone will hand it to them in the rain and then run away like a coward.

Can you kill someone by fractions? Can you take away a part of their life and then wait for them to lose the rest? Isn’t that how the Capitol kills the districts?

But you might actually need what’s in the bag, you remind yourself. As wretched as it is, there is no way of existing in an arena that leaves you completely blameless, other than by dying almost immediately. And you have things to do before you die, don’t you?

Thinking of your death in the dark isn’t something you can face, and you firmly push the thought away. Instead you think about the ground beneath your feet, about the vines or bushes that snag at them and try to make you trip, about the almost deafening chorus of frogs and insects, and about the mossy, damp tree trunks and branches you use to string your path together like one of the connect-the-numbers pictures Gamzee sometimes makes for Nepeta to play with. The reminder of your best friend and little sister is also painful, above all else you don’t want to imagine them having to watch what’s happening to you, so you circle back to your surroundings again. At one point you have to climb and crawl and squeeze through a mess of tree roots which appear to have exploded out of the earth, creating an almost impenetrable wall. Your clothes and the bag get stuck a couple of times, and mud and dirt get into your mouth and eyes unless you keep them firmly shut, but least this is a place where being smaller is in fact a clear advantage. Most of the careers and a fair few of the other tributes would never be able to get through the same way.

You emerge from the roots by clumsily tumbling headfirst to the ground, but then you stay there, staring at what you have to assume is the sky, since it’s above you. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to see the stars even if there were any – you don’t actually have any idea how dense the canopy above you is. But the point is that if you’re right, if most of the other tributes would have to take the long way around the obstacle behind you, and even the ones who could theoretically pass through would have to do so in a thoroughly vulnerable position… well, this might be the first relatively safe place to rest for a moment you’ve encountered so far. And though you cannot have been walking for too long, since you haven’t heard the cannons after the bloodbath yet, you’re already exhausted. Also drenched in sweat and desperately thirsty. You need to find water soon.

As if someone had overheard your thoughts, the sudden sharp crack of the cannon makes you curl up instinctively in terror before you realize what it is. Then you force yourself to count the tolls, feeling as if each burst of sound hits your body like a blow, rattling your bones. When it’s over, your mouth tastes like blood and stomach acid. Thirteen. As little as you’d tried to think about it, you’d still assumed that the darkness would lead to fewer tributes being killed at the bloodbath – but it seems as if all it did was to draw it out. That most likely means that at least one of the surviving tributes already has the blood of more than one person on their hands, and you can’t help but wonder how many of those kills belong to Terezi. With her newfound advantage, had she decided to stay by the Cornucopia and finish off as much of the competition as possible? No. You press your hands to your eyes, as if the darkness behind them is somehow more comforting. No, she wouldn’t. You refuse to believe that she’s that kind of person. You know she’s better than that.

But even though that has to be true, you nonetheless know that at least one kill must belong to her. You cannot delude yourself about that. It’s hard to stomach, but still easier to hold in the mind than the possibility that she’s already dead now. Most likely not, not in this arena, but… thirteen is a lot.

Worse still, because it’s personal and unavoidable, is your relief. It’s a sad, hateful little surge in you, and you despise yourself for allowing it to exist, but you know it’s necessary. You need to acknowledge that thirteen dead means thirteen other tributes that you do not have to kill yourself, thirteen threats standing in the way of Terezi getting out safe. Even if that suggests that of the nine still remaining, at least one is uncommonly deadly… well, when the time comes, maybe that will make it less awful to try to kill them. Not likely, but you’re not exactly spoilt for things to hope for.

You’re lying on what feels like clumps of dry, sharp grass, and while that’s better than lying in the mud, you can feel the damp start to creep into your clothes, and every time something tickles your exposed skin you can only hope it’s the grass, and not unknown bugs crawling over you. So you sit up, slapping urgently at any skin that still itches, just in case. Then you fumble with the bag you’d strapped to your chest while pushing your way through the roots, untangling it from your person. You’d already shoved the little first aid pouch and packet of food into an empty pocket, but now you finally have a chance to check whatever is inside the main compartment. Swearing to yourself as you fumble with the clasps and the drawstring, it feels like it takes you an eternity of long, dragging minutes to finally get it open. Then you carefully withdraw one item at a time and place them in a pile next to the bag. You want a full inventory, but the last thing you want is to lose anything in the darkness.

First there’s something that feels like a small cooking utensil and a distinctly empty water canteen. There’s a coil of thin but no doubt incredibly strong rope. Within a bundle of cloth you also find a length of fishing wire and a lure – you almost drop it when you realize that the lure is in fact glowing faintly. It’s barely strong enough for you to be able to see your palm as it rests there, like a sickly glow worm, but you suppose that to fish in complete darkness you might need something like this. You have to be careful with it, of course, because if seen by anyone else it’s such an obvious target. Even so you only wrap up the wire and carefully hook the lure on the inside of your jacket, close to your armpit. It cannot illuminate far enough to help you walk, but the even tiniest amount of light will be helpful, you’re sure.

Next is a tinderbox. You smile grimly to yourself in the darkness. Building a fire might seem like a great way of telling everyone where you are, but you think that perhaps if you can manage to dig a pit that doesn’t immediately flood, and construct some kind of shelter around it… Well, it’s a last minute resort, but you’re nonetheless grateful to have it. At least you don’t have to worry about anyone seeing the smoke, should it come to that.

The best thing is a piece of crinkly fabric which unfolds to a very decently sized tarp. When you hold the fish lure close to it, it looks silvery. In a place this soggy rain must be inevitable, and no matter how warm it feels now, getting soaked to your bones with no sun to dry you out could definitely change that very fast. Something to keep it out as you sleep is practically invaluable.

You also open the little packet of food to find that it contains dried fruit, not the kind of food that keeps you going for a long while, but it’ll last and be good for quick energy. You resist the temptation to taste it and shove it back in the bag, then fish the little bottle out of the first aid pouch. The sharp scent of tincture of iodine greets you as you uncork it, and you breathe a trembling sigh of relief. That takes care of clean water… provided you can actually find some. But fuck it, how hard can it be to find water in a swamp?

Harder than you anticipated, as it turns out. It’s completely impossible to tell how much time has passed with only blank nothing above you, but when you finally find it something bigger than a muddy puddle, it’s by almost falling face first into it, because by then you’re stumbling with exhaustion. The sweltering heat, the painfully slow pace, the sheer number of times you’ve already tripped and fallen over and once turned your ankle by stepping into a hole in the ground, has all taken its toll on you. You can’t help your small whimper as you fall to your knees right into the shallow water you’re standing in, and your fingers slip and tremble uselessly before you finally manage to undo your canteen from where you hung it from the side of the bag.

You know you should get out of the water and scoot around to somewhere you haven’t already probably stirred up all of kinds of mud and debris from the bottom, but your throat clenches desperately and you know you’re already going to have to wait for the iodine to purify the water. So instead you carefully lean forward, feeling your arm around until you find deeper water, and then plunge the canteen into it. The muffled glugging sounds as it fills up are incredibly satisfying.

You shuffle back to the water line, pinching the canteen between your knees as you pull out the fish lure from its secure spot. Then you tip out some water into your palm and dip the lure into it, tilting your palm back and forth and squinting hard. It’s hard to see, but the water mostly looks clear, meaning you don’t have to waste too much of your iodine. Even so, it proves impossible to portion out exactly ten drops with an almost negligible light source as your only aid, and you end up having to just splash a small amount in there and hope it’s enough.

As you close the canteen and give it a good shake, attaching the lure to the strap that dangles from it for now, you start to silently count down the first minute of thirty in your head, when you suddenly notice something flickering in the darkness in front of you. For a moment you’re frozen with fear, imagining another tribute with a flashlight, but… it’s too far down. It’s in the _water._

Mesmerized you stare, blinking and trying to determine if you’re imagining it. But no, there’s definitely a light there, ghostly pale and twisting like fabric caught in wind, growing brighter and brighter and… coming… closer…

You manage to throw yourself backwards with a terrified yelp right before it explodes out of the water, jaws closing around the space where your torso had been only a moment ago. Clumsily scrambling backwards on your back, not daring to look away from whatever it is, you stare in horror at the hundreds of needle sharp teeth that are exposed when the thing once again opens its jaws far too wide and snaps them over and over at the empty air, thrashing its head back and forth. It… It doesn’t have any eyes, you realize. Above a couple of bumps that might be nostrils, its head is completely smooth. It must’ve been able to sense you splashing around in the water like a fucking idiot. The reason you have the dubious privilege of seeing it so well is that all over its slimy, greyish white body, there are pale blue glowing spots in dizzying patterns, and the wispy fins that drape down its back and trail behind it displays the same kind of eerie luminescence.

It looks like some kind of horrible cross between a catfish and a snake – you remember your mother catching an eel once, and its body looks a little bit like that, except it’s almost three times as large as you. It also has legs, which you realize belatedly as it suddenly takes couple of steps toward you, its head turning in your direction. You hurriedly bite down on the sleeve of your jacket in an attempt to muffle your panicked breathing, forcing yourself to slowly keep crawling away from it using your legs and your other arm. The thing stops, whipping its long neck back and forth, and weirdly reminding you of the way Terezi will turn her head to pinpoint people’s location relative to her. But it’s still clearly an animal that’s made to live in water, and it seems to hesitate now that it’s on land, its body dragging heavily over the mud when it moves. You’re about to tell yourself you can just keep inching away until you can get to your feet, and then it won’t be able to catch you, when you realize with a sinking sense of inevitability that you’ve dropped the fucking canteen.

It’s not hard to find, but that’s because it’s right next to the muttation’s scaled, unpleasantly hand-looking front foot, so that’s not much of a help. You must’ve dragged it with you for a moment or two as you escaped, but then it slipped into the mud and now lies bathed in the sickly glow from the predator’s skin.

You can’t leave it behind. You can’t. At the moment you’re just uncomfortably dehydrated, rather than dangerously so, but you have no idea how far you have to walk to find another source of water, and without anything to carry it in, you will perpetually have to keep searching for new sources in the dark. You can’t just stay in one place, because either the other tributes will find you or the Gamemakers will drive you away if they think you’re getting dull.

The muttation is still standing in the same spot, slowly swaying its head back and forth. Pressing your eyes closed for a moment and forcing yourself to slow your breathing, you scoot your body sideways in the opposite direction of the canteen. Once you judge that you’ve gone far enough, you slap your hand down into the mud, instantly causing the creature to whip around and lunge in your direction. Your heartbeats thundering like the tolling of the cannon in your ears, you roll sideways out of its way and stagger to your feet, sprinting past it towards where the tiny light of the fish lure is still showing you where the canteen strap is. Your hand has just closed around it when there’s another snap of jaws behind you, closing not on your body but on the fabric of your jacket, jerking you to a stop.

The muttation starts thrashing, forcing you to your knees, and your terrified sobs is the only sound apart from the damp noises of your scuffle. You’d expect a wild animal to growl or hiss, but the thing is is silent as the grave as it pulls you back and forth, slipping and sliding in the mud. Weeping with panic you somehow manage to free yourself from the jacket, thrusting your body forward as you feel it slip out from under the strap of the bag. Then you run, and fall over, and run again, and hit a tree hard enough that your nose starts bleeding, and run and run until you finally fall over and find that you are shaking too hard to get up again. Your breathing comes is screeching, scraping gasps that feel like razor blades in your lungs, and you’re still crying uncontrollably. But around you there is only the singing of the frogs, and nothing seems to move.

You got away and only lost your jacket in the process. You should be relieved, but the fear and despair inside you leaves no room for anything else. You’d been so close to dying, closer than you’ve ever been before, and you never want to be that close again. You want to go home. You realize that you’re sobbing for your parents, and you can’t even be ashamed or angry with yourself about it. Find a tree, your numbed thoughts murmur from somewhere far away. Find a tree, climb it, keep yourself safe. Maybe you will. But for now, all you can do is curl up in a ball in the mud and cry until no tears are left.

* * *

Feeling deeply uncomfortable, you look away from the screen as the camera zooms in on the sobbing boy on the ground, catching how his lips form a half-choked word – “_Papi..._” – and when you glance back it has cut away to another tribute. It’s not hard to infer what the word meant, even if it seems like Karkat was using one of the antiquated scraps of old languages that some district people still hold on to. You’ve heard that back in the days directly in the wake of the Dark Days, the Capitol had made the speaking of all old languages illegal and had brutally enforced this, but nowadays they don’t seem to even bother. The vicious persecution has as far as you know left very little knowledge about already tattered and incomplete languages, and the fact that no communication is possible between the districts probably keeps it that way.

You slip your hand under your shades and tiredly rub your fingers across your eyes. The party celebrating the start of the Games is going to go on for hours yet, and though you just want to sleep, well, where would you go? Back to the Visitor Center? There are TV screens in every single room there, and during the Games they run constantly and cannot be turned off. Facing the Games in your own quiet suite seems somehow even worse than dealing with it here, and fuck, if you do your job as you should here, at least you won’t be alone when you go to sleep tonight. That’s a moderately pathetic thought, but it’s not like you haven’t gotten pretty used to sacrificing your pride by now.

As the smallest of mercies, the cameras have most likely gotten their fill of the frightened boy crying for his parents for a while. The boy whose warmth you’d felt as he lay on top of you, whose hand had pulled you to your feet, whose arm your elbow had grazed as you walked past. The boy whose hand you’d shaken as you lied to his face to make yourself feel better. It’s as if the echo of his touch returns to your body now, somehow more definite proof of his existence than the images on the screen just a moment ago. Two times over you’d thought you were going to see him die tonight, and the first time he’d had no idea how close he’d been.

The screens are right now focused on the career pack – well, what little there is of it. It feels a bit silly to call it a pack when there’s just three of them, but there you are. Both tributes from One are still alive, although the boy is hurt after Terezi Pyrope managed to stab him through the hand on her way from the Cornucopia. Apart from the two of them, there’s only the girl from Four, her gaze constantly darting to the handle of the spiked club on her back even though she can’t possibly see it in the darkness. She helps the two others clear out the Cornucopia, as they’ve apparently decided to stay inside it and use it as a base. You consider this monstrously stupid in the long run, since they’ll be the only fucks in the arena who everyone will know exactly where to find. But it’s not exactly a new career strategy.

The girl from Two had been pushed backwards when Terezi speared her, getting her close enough to the mouth of the Cornucopia to already have been airlifted out. But they have to haul the boy from Four out of there so that the hovercraft can finally claim his body. You notice the way the girl from his district clenches her jaw, and how her throat spasms as she has to touch his dead flesh, but since she manages not to throw up at least the other two careers with her won’t notice.

There is one other career tribute left alive. Jack Noir is somewhere out there in the swamp, as after his killing spree during the bloodbath he’d simply turned around and walked off, clearly uninterested in seeking out the other careers and joining their pack. Even though he’s just a kid like the rest of them, you can’t pretend that you’ll be too torn up if he should end up not being the victor. The girl from One and obviously Terezi Pyrope might just be able to kill him, but it’s not going to be easy. You don’t really want to wish death on anyone in the Games, but… well, the first thing the little creep did was to sneak over to the Cornucopia and grab a small backpack and a knife, and then he immediately went for all of the weaker tributes crawling around on the ground looking for supplies.

He’d moved silently and slowly, and had been uncomfortably good at grabbing his victims and quickly slitting their throats before they could even make a sound. As evidenced by how Karkat Vantas hadn’t even heard when Jack killed the tribute he’d grappled over that bag with. If he’d decided to try to fight that tribute, or if he hadn’t managed to pull the bag free as fast as he did… well, he’d absolutely be dead now. As it was, the moment he decided to run, Jack Noir had lost interest, turning his attention toward trying to find another victim. It went on until any tributes who had been searching the surrounding area were either long gone or dead.

All in all he’d managed to kill four on the first day. That’s still one less than you, you think dully.

There was definitely something reminiscent of Bro in the way he appears to have decided to quickly pick off the weak, not because he seems particularly intimidated by the rest of the careers, but just because he had the opportunity to do so. Apparently the Capitol audiovisual team thought so too, since they kept cutting the reaction feed back to Bro’s face as the killing went on. Must’ve been pretty frustrating for them, since reactions isn’t exactly something Bro ever… does. His face unsurprisingly stayed the same through every kill, utterly unmoved by the commentators speculating that perhaps he’d trained this tribute just like the twins. Yeah, right.

Not that you know all that much about the male tribute from Two this year. Like you and Dirk, he’s not exactly the typical big, brutal warrior that tends to end up volunteering. But apparently he’d earned the honor to do so somehow, and you wouldn’t be entirely surprised if it was by being a vicious cut-throat bastard. Well, good for him, you suppose. Either you go into the Games that way, or you’re hopefully a really fast learner.

You try not to think about it too hard, but you know that you’re trying to distance yourself by thinking like this, and you know it’s a luxury you can afford because you didn’t need to be a mentor this year. Just another privilege of belonging to the Capitol’s darling district, really. There’s going to be many highly popular other victors, some of which will even want to be mentors as a way of staying in the limelight, so even if you won’t be able to dodge it forever, the pressure isn’t so great. Put like that, you really cannot figure out why Bro is mentoring this year again.

Somehow you’d kind of expected him to stop completely now that you and Dirk have made it through, and maybe that’s a bit fucking self-centered but like… what reason does he actually have of doing this? He’s not incompetent, but he’s relentlessly hands-off in his mentoring style of everyone else, and his entertainment value in the eyes of the Capitol is dubious to say the least. He’s admired but also controversial because of his Games, he’s all but impossible to interview, and you’re sure there are plenty other suitable candidates. Really, the only way you can imagine this happening is that he specifically requested to mentor, and all other victors were intimidated enough by him that they withdrew their own requests. Which once again leads you back to asking, _Why?_

Why is he doing this?

Then there are people who have the misfortune of just being far more popular than the other victors from their district… You glance in the direction of the gaggle surrounding Jake. He’s smiling and joking lightly now, looking like he’s positively thriving, and it’s honestly hard for you to tell if he in fact takes some kind of comfort from playing his star role, or if it’s entirely a facade to hide his real emotions. The whole idea of drawing a line between the masks you wear and the person behind them has always been highly disconcerting to you, anyway.

Regardless of what he looks like now, you’d seen Jake’s face when the boy from Four was brutally clubbed to death from behind, and though this is the first time since winning that he’s not in fact mentoring, it’s clear that he hasn’t been able to completely put that role behind him. The Capitol people around him had exclaimed in exaggerated horror and dismay, offering loud condolences and drinks, fluttering around Jake like brightly colored confetti caught in a strong breeze. Only in the Capitol would they be able to figure out how to make even sympathy predatory.

Personally, you wish you could say you were a better person, who wouldn’t have felt a surge of anxious triumph as Terezi Pyrope skewered the girl from your own district. It’s an ugly thing to feel, but hell, you guess it’s hard to not root for an underdog, and since the only other perceivable outcome would be that Pyrope would’ve died instead… what can you do?

As if on cue, the cameras cut to the blind girl, curled up in her sleeping bag in the small cavelike structure created by a windthrow, chewing on some dried meat and sipping juice. On the night vision feed she looks ridiculously exposed like that, sleeping on the ground where anyone could just happen by, but in complete darkness it must in fact be a pretty great hiding place. No one can stumble on her, and she doesn’t have to risk trying to climb a tree, an activity you assume she hasn’t dedicated many hours of her life to before this point. No doubt she would be able to hear anyone approaching her far before they’d have any chance of finding her.

They close in on her face as the anthem starts playing, but she barely even reacts. Just lets out an annoyed huff and turns over, so that the audience gets the pleasure of trying to read her thoughts via the back of her head. You smile slightly. Had they expected a sudden, dismayed realization that she’s unable to see the faces of the killed tributes in the sky? Do they really expect her to be surprised by the fact that she’s blind? Tsk tsk, Jane.

The AV team apparently give up on Terezi, and instead cut in between the rest of the surviving tributes and the sky. First the girl from Two, and then cut to Jack, who has built a small fire and is roasting some kind of small rodent with an expression of acute skepticism, fingering the edge of his knife. He glances up briefly, eyes narrowing slightly, but that’s it as far as reactions go. You can get behind the tributes making the camera team have to work for it. Then the boy from Four, cutting to the girl from his district, who looks at the ground and chews her lower lip.

Both from Five and Six, the boy from Seven – you glance at Vriska, who is pouring some kind of hot sauce into a bowl of shrimp salad and not even acknowledging the TV screens – and both from Eight, Nine and Ten. They cut back a lot to Jack and the girl from One, who managed three kills of her own. Four got two, and of course the girl from Two already had two under her belt before she herself was killed. The boy from One didn’t kill a single person due to his wounded hand, so the odds on him are plummeting and his potential sponsors are looking displeased. The last unaccounted for kill belongs to the girl from Eleven, who had throttled the boy from Seven during a quick scuffle close to the mouth of the Cornucopia, before grabbing a weapon and a sack of food and running off into the darkness.

You watch the faces of the surviving tributes as they do the math, as they no doubt wonder exactly how those tributes lost their lives, and who did the deed. Since you’d spent this moment during your own Games lying on your stomach and feeling like your consciousness was slowly and painfully being dragged out of your body, you’d missed this particular part of the torture. You hadn’t been able to work out a list of the tributes still left alive, but since you’d more or less resolved to avoid them all until the very end, it hadn’t mattered that much to you.

It’s somewhat interesting to note that with only eleven tributes left after the first day, there’s still a surprisingly large number of whole district sets still in play. One, Three, Eleven and Twelve. Not only that, but two of those sets are apparently sticking together for now. The two from One are in the career pack, so that’s not all that unusual, but the ones from Three on the other hand… They hadn’t really made much of an impression during the parade or interviews; both of them pale, skinny and not very memorable. The boy had a tendency to giggle at inappropriate moments, and the girl seemed permanently uninterested in her surroundings, rolling her eyes a lot and shrugging. You hadn’t been able to detect any kind of attachment between them. Nor had you noticed anything that seemed to be wrong with her, but the moment she stepped off her platform at the start of the Games, she’d simply sat down next to it and started digging. The boy from her district had done the same, and once he’d unearthed one of the mines buried there, he’d legged it from platform to platform until he found her and just… picked her up. He’d carried her on his back for hours, and then he’d set her down on a low tree branch and went off to forage for food and water.

Are they trying to imitate Karkat by playing the romance angle too? That’s what the commentators had speculated, acting as if they were appalled by such cynicism. It seems like a really weak and foolish gambit to you. More likely they are in fact friends since before the Games, and have decided to stick together until one of them is killed by something else. It happens, and it’s always tragic when it does.

As for Eleven and Twelve, they’ve all more or less headed off in the opposite direction of their district partner. The twelve-year-old boy is snuggled up in a tree with a blanket around him, while his district partner is eating some kind of bar of grain and nuts at the top of a small hill where the ground looks a bit drier. Terezi Pyrope appears to be asleep. Karkat Vantas had been in the middle of climbing a tree of his own when the fallen tributes were displayed, and had stared silently up at the suddenly illuminated sky with traces of tears still gleaming softly on his cheeks. Now he’s wrapped himself in a cocoon of that silvery tarp and strapped himself to a branch with his rope, chewing dried fruit and sipping his hard-earned water. He also appears to have found some kind of mushrooms which he’s eating raw, and you hope he knows what the fuck he’s doing. You’ve seen other kids have reactions to unknown mushrooms in the Games before and it’s always… really, really bad. Hallucinations, deadly poison, or why not both?

Despite night not really making a lick of difference in this arena, most of them appear to have decided to try to sleep through it. Well, they must be tired. Jack Noir grabs his grilled rodent and kicks mud over his fire, before stalking off. If he’s planning to sleep, it makes sense for him to get some distance from the place where he announced his presence for the whole world. If he plans to try to find more vulnerable tributes and stab them in their sleep… well, that makes sense too. Either way, the party here in the Capitol isn’t going to stop.

Suddenly you have your lap full of girl. There is no real cohesion to that experience, just dazzling lights reflected off a gleaming metallic dress, a lot of hair, a sweet smell of alcohol, and a voice almost choked by giddy laughter. As you lean back a bit and instinctively grab her waist to steady her, you notice she’s not very old. A couple of years younger than you, maybe seventeen or so.

“Dave Strider! Oh goodness, you’re such a pretty thing, aren’t you?”

A middle-aged man standing a little way behind her gives an avuncular chuckle. “I’m sorry if she’s bothering you. She’s had a little much to drink.”

Not just drink, you think, noticing traces of a white powder clinging to her lip gloss. “Nah, it’s cool, we’re all good here. Hey, sweetheart, maybe you’d like… fall over less if you try to sit on the sofa instead?”

“Nnnoooo!” She wraps her arms around you and clings to you. “I like- like being on you.” You think she’s trying to sound seductive, but she comes off more childishly stubborn, as if you’d just told her it’s bedtime. Her male companion looks amused. Is he her father, her chaperon, or her lover? Impossible to tell.

“Okay, okay, stay right there but just...” You manage to maneuver her so at least she’s not straddling you, instead allowing her to drape diagonally across your body like a stole. Her face is close to yours, her eyes glittering and unfocused, making you think of the spinning prisms Capitol people will hang over dance floors. They’re almost making you dizzy.

“You’re so- so nnnnice,” she slurs. “Your brother- your brother was ssssooo _cold_ to little old me! I don’t think he likes- likes- I don’t think he likes _girls_.” She widens her eyes as if scandalized, then dissolve into another fit of giggles.

What you don’t tell her is that well, no, Dirk had pretty much always known what he wanted in that regard. It’s taking you much longer, and it’s being thoroughly complicated by the fact that you don’t actually have a choice and by now you don’t think you’d be able to distinguish real attraction if it bit you on the ass, but it definitely doesn’t include drunk Capitol teenagers. Even if she’s in fact closer to your age than practically all the people you’ve slept with so far, it doesn’t feel that way. Just looking at her makes you feel _ancient_.

“My brother,” you reply levelly, “doesn’t like _anyone_. Except me. As much as it pains me to admit it, he’s just kind of a dick in general.”

She laughs and plants a kiss on your cheek, smearing fruit-scented lip gloss and whatever that drug was across your cheek bone. “Well, you’re much nicer. I like you. Do you like me too?”

She bats her eyelashes, and you manage not to sigh or grimace as you tell her you do. Later on, you end up just picking her up, by then completely incoherent, and carry her to one of the private rooms on the floor above. The man with her appears, thankfully, to not be her lover, or he would no doubt have insisted on following you to watch. Instead he just winks conspiratorially and tells you to take good care of her. You do as he says, although not as he actually meant, and simply take her shoes off and tuck her in. You can’t even say that she falls asleep because she’s already so out of it. Then you toe your own shoes off and slide onto the other side of the thankfully very wide bed, and it’s not that long until you nod off as well.

In the morning she’s miserable, shaking and looks slightly green. After throwing up in the bathroom, she shyly asks you if the two of you ‘did it’. You reply evenly that you’re sorry, but she did in fact fall asleep before anything happened. She looks humiliated, but you can nonetheless catch an edge of relief in her gaze and in her movements as she hastily picks up her shoes and leaves.

You grimace at the closed door. You pretty much wasted this night. You should’ve found someone more influential, someone more useful to spend the night with. One of the prospective sponsors for preference. But you don’t really care if Rose is going to be pointed at you about it later, or if it’s not your responsibility to take care of insensible Capitol girls, it had still seemed like the right thing to do. And you feel like maybe you’d deserved a night of relative rest. There’s plenty more days of the Games to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you know everyone is doing GREAT in this the 74th Hunger Games ahahaha. and btw i’m calling the mutation karkat encountered the “eeligator”, bc shut up is why.
> 
> also i only post at weird hours bc i do not sleep. and my wife works the night shift sooooo sometimes i stay up until she comes home.


	19. Puzzles and traps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd like to think a trap is just a puzzle with more deadly consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FRIENDS I regret to inform you that I AM TOO GAY TO DO MATH. by which i mean, somehow even though i carefully made lists & everything, i still got the number of dead tributes wrong in the last chapter OTL the current situation is that there are THIRTEEN dead and ELEVEN alive. i have edited the last chapter to reflect this, and i apologize for my huge failure at life.
> 
> anyway, the order of narrators is terezi > rose

You don’t actually think that Karkat is dead yet. Maybe in another arena you could be convinced that the odds are too steep to seriously take him into any further consideration, or at the very least consider him dead until proven otherwise. But even if it’s to a lesser extent, he too has just had his greatest disadvantage turn into something that could be considered an asset. Less weight to throw around means lighter footfalls, as you know well, and a smaller frame means that there’s not as much of him to hit. Provided he got away from the bloodbath fast enough, he should in fact be considered a serious contender, given his survival skills.

For him to actually _win_, however, you have a hard time imagining that it’d be anything other than by outlasting everyone else. That’s more or less the opposite of the strategy you’re going to have to employ, meaning if he doesn’t get killed by someone else, at some point you’re going to have to hunt him down yourself if you want to get out. Put like that, as much as you hate the thought of his death, hate that you’ll never be able to repay your debt, you still have no choice but to hope for some other danger to claim him before it comes to that. Apart from surviving, what you want more than anything else is to not have him and you be the last tributes left alive.

And of course he’d set it up so that the whole Capitol is desperate for exactly that to happen.

You grimace sourly, pausing to scratch at one of the approximately million bug bites you’ve already acquired. No matter who you have to face up to in the end, it’s in fact very likely you won’t know who they are until you’ve managed to hunt them down. There’s just no way you can know for certain which other tributes are alive without getting close enough to hear them, after all – and if you’re going to risk doing that, it should only be to quickly remedy the whole ‘still alive’ situation. You know the identity of four of the people who are decidedly _not_ alive, and you can make educated guesses on who is more likely to not be among the remaining nine dead, planning accordingly, but there’s no way around there being a substantial amount of uncertainty.

So. You will assume that Karkat is alive, and Karako as well, since you’re almost positive that he’d indeed been the one running past you and making a break for the forest. Since all deaths so far took place during the bloodbath, this means it’s unlikely that something else got him before he managed to get away. You also have to count on at least a couple of the careers being alive; it would be stupidly optimistic to assume they’d all met similar fates to the boy from Four and the girl from Two. The girl from One seems like a particularly safe bet. Every time you’ve heard her speak, you hadn’t been able to catch even a hint of genuine emotion under that perfect veneer of cruel amusement and chilly indifference. The Capitol audience had taken to adoringly calling her the Ice Queen, supposedly in particular contrast to the fiery theme your own team had adopted, causing Karat to irreverently refer to her as Snowman instead.

Apart from her… probably the boy from Two as well, leaving the girl from Four and the boy from One up in the air. You think the latter might have been the person you wounded, but it’s a lot harder to tell voices apart when all you have to go on is a pained whimper. Maybe that means he’s dead now, because even if the wound itself hadn’t been a fatal one, the others might have decided to take advantage of his weakness. Or maybe there’s still some kind of alliance holding between the careers that’ll keep him safe for now.

Konyyl? Maybe. But her advantage had mainly been to be big and powerful, as far as you can tell, and you’re not actually sure if she’s capable of being silent or fast. In truth, apart from the four you’re relatively certain of, it really could be anyone. That’s more than half of the remaining tributes unaccounted for, and every time someone dies when you’re not present, the uneven balance between what you know and what everyone else does will shift a bit further.

Well, there’s no point in dwelling on it. For now, the best thing you can do is to keep moving and try to get a general sense of the lay of the land. Because while you may have no experience navigating through wilderness, on the other hand you’re not sure how many tributes apart from Karkat know how to do that either, and absolutely none of the others have had to learn how to maintain a sense of direction without relying on their eyes. That leaves you either about even or with an advantage, and if you can work out a rough mental outline of the arena with reference to the – presumably – central position of the Cornucopia, you’ll be able to move with a purpose once it’s time to start taking the others out for real.

You’d tried as much as possible to move in a straight line during the first day, but of course that’s not a tenable strategy in the long run. Trying actively to get as far away from other tributes as you can is bound to cause the Gamemakers to interfere, and with very small returns for your efforts if the arena is as small as you suspect. So ever since you woke up, you’ve attempted instead to stay parallel with your original starting point, thus hopefully moving in a wide circle around the Cornucopia. It… doesn’t come naturally to move like this. Your usual way of navigating is to start out with a landmark you know and then move in a straight line until you hit your next fixed point, and then adjust your course accordingly. Of course in environments that don’t stay static, like the constant hustle and shifting tables at the Hob, you’ve had to adopt other strategies, such as remaining aware of which direction the doors are in relation to you at all times. That’s sort of what you’re trying to do now, but the Hob is still confined within walls and relatively tiny compared to even a small arena, and it leaves you feeling unpleasantly untethered.

Well, if that’s how _you_ feel, imagine what everyone else must be experiencing. Compared to anyone who didn’t stay right by the Cornucopia, you must surely be much more aware of where you are at this point, and compared to anyone who _did_ stay put, you will know more about everything that lies beyond the treeline with every second. They are more than welcome to stay ignorant for as long as possible, because you don’t intend to face them on their own turf. You’ll find a way of making them come to you.

The place where you’d slept had been mostly flat, the ground spongy but stable, the trees gnarled and their roots spreading out wide, which was how you’d found such an excellent place to shelter in the first place. It would’ve been nice to stay somewhere that wasn’t trying to trip you every other second, but flat also meant exposed, and on the off chance that another tribute should manage to find you during the anthem when the sky is briefly lit up… Well, you have to admit it’s was a relief when you once more felt the greenery around you thicken, even if it meant the ground below also grew more perilous.

You were less relieved when things started getting distinctly damp, and your spear kept splashing into more and more puddles and ponds. As much as possible, you’d worked out that you want to avoid the water. You’re lucky enough to have some already bottled fresh water in the backpack you grabbed, and while it won’t last forever, you don’t think you’re going to take your chances with standing water. _Everything_ smells rotten and pungent here, so your chance of telling which water is good and which isn’t before you’ve already swallowed it seems slim. Better to gather as much as you can in your cooking pot every time it rains, and keep an ear open for any moving water you can find. So there was just no sense in risking getting close to whatever dangers the ponds might hold.

The problem was that after a while you’d fetched up against a much larger body of water. A few careful pokes with the butt of the spear suggested it wasn’t deep, but nonetheless you were not keen on wading. Even disregarding the fact that you had no way of knowing how far the water would stretch or how deep it might get later on, it would be noisy, potentially dangerous, and sure to slow you down. The other alternative was, of course, to walk around the water, but that didn’t come without its own set of risks. If you walked away from the Cornucopia you risked losing your bearings completel, and you couldn’t know for sure if there was even a way around the water that way, or if you’d simply fetch up against the end of the arena – and if you took too long about it, being targeted by the Gamemakers was inevitable. If you walked toward it, you risked getting too close to it, and you think you have a very good reason to suspect that there might be things among the bounty surrounding it that could help the other tributes see in the dark.

In the end you’d decided tentatively to head away, but to switch directions if you still weren’t back on course in a couple of hours. Even if you weren’t fond of the prospect of backtracking, you were even less fond of the idea of Gamemakers taking potshots at you to see if they could make you run the right way. Anyway, that’s how you’d found the first walkway.

They’re made of slippery wood and swinging ropes, and they’re all over this particular area, crisscrossing each other, going up and around and in loops, creating a crazy maze which hangs suspended above the water below. Sometimes they force you to climb ladders, and at one point the one you were on had ended in a slide – which you obviously hadn’t trusted, and so you’d gone back to the last fork and tried another way. More than once your spear-turned-cane has suddenly encountered nothing but a sheer drop, also compelling you to turn around. Even so, they’re vastly to be preferred over wading or taking the long way around what appears to be a huge swathe of wetland, and while rickety at times, they do in fact offer you fairly even footing. Oh, and you’d soon started to notice, by counting steps and available turns, that the whole construction very obviously is designed to turn you in one particular direction, one which overlaps with your latest estimate of the direction of the Cornucopia. That certainly makes sense with everything you know about how Gamemakers think, and once you’ve spotted it, it’s actually very easy to navigate the maze.

You make a game of it, making sure to give the cameras plenty of opportunities to catch you smiling or even laughing silently as you weave easily through this tangled web, swing your way across open air, scramble up and down ladders. You want them to see you unbothered, even enjoying yourself, and hopefully that will keep you entertaining enough to not interfere with just yet.

Food-wise, you have to admit the pickings in the maze are pretty slim, but you have a bit of a buffer since your bag had also come packed with some food, so you make the best of it. You’ve encountered vines covered in berries and fruit a couple of times, but none have felt or smelled familiar, so you’d left them where they were. Your careful exploration of the tree tops you occasionally pass through has so far netted you one occupied bird’s nest, and while it was absolutely disgusting, you’d managed to choke down all four eggs raw. That had left you both nourished and so nauseous that you hadn’t even been able to think about eating for a couple of hours, so at least there was that. You’ve also heard animals scurrying and fish splashing lazily below, and trying to spear one of them is of course always an option, but you’re going to have to get a lot hungrier before you decide to eat any kind of raw meat. For now your dinner plans involve a bit more of the dried stuff and a couple of crackers.

After a while you become aware that you’re not alone. There’s something else moving about in the creaky labyrinth, and you stop dead and hold your breath once you’re certain you’re not imagining it, slowly turning your head this way and that. It’s entirely possibly that the Gamemakers has set some muttation horror to guard their maze, or maybe just released one if they thought you were not entertaining enough. But it doesn’t appear to be moving fast, or even in your direction, and after you’ve stood still for maybe ten minutes, you hear a strangled cry followed by a splash. You relax. Another tribute, somewhere behind you, and as far as you can tell unaware of your presence.

You could turn back, of course. Whoever it is – and at this distance you really have no idea other than that it had sounded like a girl – you’d bet anything they’re not part of the career pack, and therefore they’re on their own and odds are they’re unarmed. In every sense, they’re easy prey… and you also do not want them at your back, in case they’re not as unaware of you as you believe.

Your hand tightens around the shaft of the spear, and you breathe slowly, trying to think. Doing nothing will look bad. But you also don’t want to get into an unnecessary fight with someone who is posing no threat to you. As certain as you had been about it at the time, you still cannot rid yourself of the sickening sensation of your spear gliding easily into unprotected flesh, the stink of blood, the wet gurgle of someone trying to breathe through a mangled throat. You’ve already made sure you won’t come out of this with your hands unbloodied, but maybe… maybe Karkat was on to something, and though coming out alive is your top priority, you also want to return home as yourself.

But you still have to do something. So you unsling your backpack, your hands easily finding the right compartment after you did a substantial amount of rearranging earlier. Among other pleasant surprises the bag had offered you was a small and sturdy folding knife. Useless as a weapon, but certainly effective for what you have in mind.

Leaving a trail of severed ladders, weakened supports and cut ropes in your wake, you keep making your way toward the other side of the labyrinth, and whatever awaits you next.

* * *

It’s well into the second night, and earlier this evening you took your first dose of the drugs that will keep you awake for as much of the Games as possible. Which is why you’re currently hunched over the toilet in the private quarters you’ve been provided with, fighting your body’s impulse to once again purge what simply isn’t there anymore. The first time the drugs hit is always the worst; after that you will slowly get used to it, though the nausea might persist for days. It’s a known and very common side effect, and most Gamemakers suffer from adverse reactions to the chemicals to greater or lesser extents – though regrettably your constitution appears particularly ill suited to the regimen. Then again at least it’s effective, and you won’t suffer as badly from the muscle weakness and fainting spells which tend to affect some of your colleagues later on.

It’s part of the price you pay for your power and influence, it’s that simple. And perhaps there is some measure of poetic justice in how you struggle to force food down as you watch children starve at your hand.

“Let me get a look at you.” Slim but firm fingers turn your head around, brush your hair out of your face. Eridan makes a disgusted face at you, but he also runs a clean, damp cloth across your mouth and chin. “You look like absolute shit,” he remarks unsympathetically.

“A shining example of the outside reflecting the inside, then,” you say with a faint little smile, your voice a little hoarse with gall and exertion. “Be grateful the same doesn’t seem to apply to you.”

He just rolls his deep purple eyes at you, adjusting the glasses he doesn’t even need after his eye surgery, before sliding an arm around your waist and easing you up off the floor with apparently no effort at all. Well, you’re a rather small woman, but even so it always takes you by surprise how someone so seemingly soft and pampered can hoist you around like a rag doll, never even breaking enough of a sweat to smudge his mascara.

He leads you out of the bathroom and toward a small table where a glass of water, a handful of plain crackers, a cup of broth and a some mints have already been set out for you. ‘Personal assistants’ they’re called, but the truth is that at times during the games they come closer to being caretakers, as you allow your bodies to suffer to keep your minds sharp and alert. It’s not uncommon for them to be particularly trusted friends or family members, in some cases even lovers, though you cannot imagine anything less romantic than being seen like this. Regardless of your relationship, however, compatibility is key when someone is expected to care for you at your very weakest, and most Gamemakers strive to find someone gentle and nurturing for the position.

“I’ll get some of your make-up, I can’t bear to look at you right now. Drink some fucking water, and at least _try_ to appreciate that I got you something you might be able to eat.”

You, on the other hand, had picked a huge bitch. Jane isn’t the only one who has questioned your decision, because Eridan has the delightful habit of spreading his displeasure around with a big shovel regardless who happens to be close by. That, at least, you will count as a bit of a perk, because it brings a simple joy and solace to your blacked heart to watch the faces of the great and powerful when they end up on the receiving end of his acerbic barbs. It’s not the main reason you’d hired him, of course, but if you are going to have to put up with the full force of his mostly dismal personality, you’re at least glad you’re not his only target.

Also if you’re going to be honest, you suppose it wouldn’t have done to try to get an actually nice person to work for you. Partly because those are in pretty short supply in the Capitol – and the few that exist would understandably not jump at the opportunity to work with the Games – but mainly because compatibility really is important. He has quite a way to go before he has a chance of being a bigger bitch than you.

After washing the worst of the sour taste away with a few mouthfuls of water, you work your way through half the broth by taking tiny sips of it, even managing to nibble a bit on a cracker by the time Eridan returns. He brusquely spins your chair around and pushes your hands into your lap, and you sit quiet and unprotesting as he reapplies your lipstick, removes the smudges from under your eyes and evens out your foundation, all the while muttering about what a pain in the ass you are. You wonder how aware he is of how little you’re inclined to take that as an insult. As it is, you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from thanking him for noticing.

“There, you almost look like a human being again,” he says, wiping the dark smudges of your foundation off his own olive-toned fingers with a small, lemon-scented napkin. “Try not to immediately mess it up again, there’ll be a brief camera spotlight at six and I don’t want to have to redo the whole thing.” He wrinkles his nose slightly. “Is that all you’re going to eat?”

The quick shift in focus throws you a bit, but you raise your eyebrows at him and smile sweetly. “My main source of nourishment is your misery, so I’m quite content.” You keep your voice even and pleasant as you get to your feet and steadfastly ignore the way it makes the whole room revolve around you for a moment. “I’ll bring the water and crackers with me, and if I need anything else I’ll send for you. That’ll be all.”

He’s frowning at you as you move toward the door, and you half expect him to send you off with another uncharitable remark, but he just shrugs and gets a bit unsteadily to his feet as well. Not surprising, he must be exhausted. There aren’t the same requirements on Eridan to stay awake at all times, but even so the schedule is demanding and he’s expected to wake up whenever you need anything. You try not to utilize this to torture him _too_ much, but well, a lady has to take her feeble pleasures where she can find them in this job. The last you see of him is him collapsing into the small bunk provided more for his convenience than his comfort, before the door swings shut and you walk through the muted light of the corridor back to the control room.

There’s not much going on right now, since most of the tributes are at rest. You note that Jane appears to have gone off to catch some sleep too, and another woman from her team has taken her place, cycling through the cameras close to the tributes with practiced ease. You notice a few other Gamemaker chairs standing empty as well, and you’re not surprised, since you’re certain you’re not the only one who is feeling heartily sick at present. Well, the fact that so many of you have already lost both tributes you’re responsible for and have been reassigned to new teams means it’s not really an issue if a handful of you slip off. It also means that even though there haven’t been any deaths on this day, no one is in much of a hurry to move things along just yet, since you don’t want the Games to end too soon.

You yawn, putting down your glass of water and plate of crackers on the small platform next to your chair. Since your team are among the minority still tending to one single tribute, Kurloz had decided not to assign you any new teammates yet, and you’re grateful for this small blessing. The more people responsible for your tribute, the harder it’ll be to steer him towards the outcome you want. Of course it helps that you have other… arrangements in place, but you don’t want to rely too heavily on him if you don’t have to.

Lanque looks up as you slide into your seat, treating you to a charming little smile, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. The other Gamemaker on your team is hard to read, even for you; he’s never been anything but impeccably gracious and sociable, and is certainly a lot less vicious or outright ghoulish, compared to some Gamemakers you could mention. But when you’re surrounded by the very worst people the Capitol has to offer, not measuring among those who are unbearably unpleasant to be around is faint praise indeed. Besides, the fact that he is more self-possessed and knows how to make himself likable hardly makes him _less_ dangerous in your book.

“Feeling better? Pardon me for saying so, but you were starting to look a little bit on the clammy side before you left.”

Also you’ll be damned if some of that winsome frankness of his isn’t actually just his way of being a catty little bitch and hiding it with a pretty smile. You refrain from making a face, thinking to yourself that if that is indeed that case, you prefer Eridan’s more honest nastiness.

“Well, there’s next to nothing left inside me to still make me feel nauseous, so I suppose in a certain light that does indeed constitute as feeling better,” you say with a small shrug and your very sweetest smile, reaching for your water.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. The side effects of medication can be truly unpleasant, but… well, it’s the price we pay for getting what we want, isn’t it?” A light laugh, but there’s a bit of an edge to it. “After all, if the benefits didn’t outweigh the inconveniences, we wouldn’t keep taking them, now would we?”

“That,” you say, matching his laugh with a carefully crafted one of your own, “is a lot easier to keep in mind and be suitably philosophical about now, when I’m no longer bent double in the bathroom.”

His eyebrows lift and he doesn’t actually say anything inappropriate, but you can hear the space in the conversation where the words would’ve gone. Something about how being bent double in bathrooms indeed often was the kind of necessary sacrifice he was talking about, probably, or something similar. Sometimes he’s a lot less tactful about saying things like that, but usually only after a few drinks, and you think he might be a bit more careful around you since he knows you’ll give as good as you get.

You’re saved from further conversational maneuvering when there’s a movement on one of your screens, and you turn to see your tribute apparently giving up on his fitful slumber and sit up, grimacing irritably at the darkness. The most obvious means of measuring time in this arena is by the anthem at “sunset”, and so far the tributes seem to have been trying to use it to determine when they should sleep. But you can tell that the lack of light is already disturbing their circadian rhythms, their sleep troubled by not knowing how much of the night has already passed, when to wake up, and so they drift in and out of restless wakefulness at night and suffer for it during their waking hours.

Well, not the girl from Twelve, of course. You know there are in fact ways to roughly tell the time in there, something about which animals are active and making noise that the commentators had expounded upon at some point, though you weren’t listening too closely – the ways of nature, you will freely admit, aren’t among your chief interests. You wonder if that’s what the blind girl instinctively listens for, if that’s why she’d been able to sleep so soundly and awaken naturally at dawn. Then again, maybe she’s just more attuned to the internal workings of her body, instead of carrying a clock or watching the sky? You think that the little boy from Eleven might have worked out the pattern of sounds, though, from the way he’d gotten up and started moving at the exact moment the male mockingjays stopped their territorial nightly singing contests this morning. Even though not all of the animals in the arena are in fact adapted to living in darkness, and are no doubt struggling to survive, they still seem to intrinsically understand the passage of time in a way all humans but one do not.

Given that, you can see how there’s no real reason for Jack Noir to try to maintain a rhythm already shaken, and with no difference between day and night the incentive to sleep during the latter is weak to begin with. You see the sense in it as he packs up and begins his hunt once more, even though it naturally also worries you. You sweep your eyes over your different monitors, assessing risks. The girl from Twelve had found the other side of the bridge maze just in time for the anthem, and after thoroughly sabotaging that particular point of exit she had found a place to sleep in one of the sunken ruins in the adjoining area. She’s a bit too close to the tributes from Three for comfort, but the two of them are pretty dug down and don’t move around much, so as long as she’s smart enough not to fall into their trap, she’ll be fine. She’s also the one most likely to cross paths with Jack Noir considering her current trajectory, though at least there’s more than a day’s distance between them yet.

You’re pretty sure she could kill him, especially since a spear has considerably more reach than a knife, but, you’re not prepared to gamble on the outcome unless you have no other option. If possible you’d like to further skew the odds against him before they meet.

The tributes closest to Noir currently are the boys from Twelve and Eleven, but they’re both heading in the opposite direction. Vantas had managed to reach the edge of the arena during the day. You and the rest of the Gamemakers had made a unanimous decision to make sure the tributes wouldn’t be able to walk into the force field in the dark, since you might lose far too many tributes to a not very exciting death that way. So instead you’d placed a steep cliff dropping into a deadly mud moat between it and them, and there had definitely been a moment there when it had looked like Twelve would lose one tribute to it. But he’d caught his balance, and after walking alongside the cliff for a little while, he seems to have given up on the idea of heading any further in that direction and headed back into the forest once more.

Of course, he’s now made the mistake of falling asleep in _that_ area, so the chances of him surviving to the morning are extremely slim. Well, that’s not your problem. If the team in charge of Twelve are competent and motivated, perhaps they’ll be able to keep him alive somehow, even if it’s only so he can die more dramatically later.

You don’t know if it’s the drugs or the lack of sleep that causes the strangely removed sensation which envelops your thoughts and feelings like cold mist. Whatever it is, though, you’re grateful for it. You cannot allow yourself to slow down and consider what you’re doing, cannot hold on to the feelings of a person who is alive and acknowledges that same life in others. Now you think of Eridan’s hands on your face, fixing up your makeup, and how Roxy’s fingers will have been putting together the faces and bodies of thirteen dead children since yesterday, and the symmetry of it all feels chilly and geometrical, like rules crystallizing around the foundations of the world.

Apart from Eleven and Twelve, the tributes closest to Noir are the career pack, since they’re still at the center of the arena. You move your eyes to their screens, a motion that feels mechanical somehow. The girl from One is awake and guarding the two others as they sleep. Even though she’s wearing the one pair of dark vision glasses the careers have in their possession, her head is tilted back and her eyes are half closed, and from the occasional tilting of her head and flutter of her lashes you have to conclude that she’s listening carefully to the night around her. In her lap, her heavily callused fingers curl around the handle of the kind of nasty short whip which you’ve already seen her do some frighteningly precise and thoroughly unpleasant things with during her private training session. And the handle of the thing is full of enough lead shot to crack a skull if wielded as a blackjack. Delightful.

Earlier on the pack had taken turns going hunting for other tributes in twos while one stayed to guard the Cornucopia, which is a risky way of going about things, but you suppose their options are limited when there’s only three of them already. So far they have not found anyone, but the trips have not been completely in vain. Now all the places they’ve already gone are marked by trails of ropes linking tree to tree, allowing them to know where they’ve gone before, to move faster through the uneven terrain, and to find their way back faster. You have to admit that you’re impressed. The fact that the ropes can be used by other tributes is kind of moot when every single trail leads back to the career stronghold, after all.

Not much is going on there now, so you focus once more on Jack Noir as he moves cautiously through the thick vegetation, always stepping back every time his feet encounter water and taking his time to track around it. He’s also had a run-in with one of those horrifying muttations, the luminescent alligator eels, and though not quite as traumatic as Vantas’, it has made him understandably wary of water. But you’ve seen his supply growing sparse, and sooner or later he’s going to have to risk it.

He’s heading right toward the tributes from Three. _They_ have water, having planted themselves right by one of the very few completely clean fresh water springs in the arena, and their team has decided to let them stay there for now. The setup of their nasty trap is promising enough to leave them be for a while still.

You tap your lips and watch Jack Noir’s stony face as he takes a small sip from his flask of water, obviously trying to conserve what little he has. Oh yes. That is a good idea. If it goes as you want it to, he will either die before he’s even had a chance to encounter Pyrope, or you’ll be able to hand him over to her so damaged that it will be a mercy to kill him. A smile pulls at your lips, a twisted little thing that you’re glad that your fellow revolutionaries won’t have to see.

When you turn to Lanque, you find that he’s already watching you raptly, chin delicately propped against his hand. “You look utterly terrifying,” he says, with clear admiration. “Care to share?”

There’s some kind of edge there, razor blades between each syllable, and you don’t think you’ll have to push too much to convince him. You cannot hope to guess at his motivations, but it doesn’t matter, because every single one of you is playing a complicated game of your own devising. You are all here for a reason. You choke down the bitter pills, and he’s right, you do it to get what you want. He wants something too; he’s driven by some hunger, same as you. All you have to do is smile wider still, and invite him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you might've noticed, this is a somewhat slower chapter after EVERYTHING HAPPENING SO MUCH in the previous one. that's because the next one will be a complete doozy and i needed to set the scene a bit. i've scribbled out a little map of the arena in my sketching pad and had to spend like half an hour swearing over it to get all the movements of the tributes right for what i want to do. i'm extremely excited for things to go ABSOLUTELY APESHIT with the next chapter, so stay tuned for that whole mess, i guess. also bless y'all for continuing to be the best readers ever <3
> 
> (current tributes still alive as of this chapter, bc w the switching perspectives this might be confusing: both from 1, boy from 2, both from 3, girl from 4, girl from 7, both from 11, both from 12)


	20. Domino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both a mask, a game, and an unfortunate effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS, remember how I sometimes hyperfocus and update unreasonably fast?? yeah, that happened here. and in true (belated) Halloween spirit, this chapter is full of horrors. most importantly i feel there should be an IMPLIED INCEST WARNING on this chapter, sob. it's not consensual, unsurprisingly. it's also it's not directly described, and it's definitely not explicit. it's another unfortunate case of "okay but brothers should not be forced to be part of the same threesome". but i felt i should warn for it. also there's implied pedophilia (as in the gross paraphilia rather than the crime in itself in this particular care). oh, and drowning. so you know, heads up for all these things.
> 
> also the order of POV's is /DEEP BREATH/ rose > jake > karkat > dirk > terezi > karkat > terezi
> 
> ...yeah there's a lot of POV shifts in this chapter. hopefully i've made them reasonably clear, but you might have to refer back to the list. my apologies, darlings <3

You flex your fingers as you walk over to the Pods team, ready to give them the signal. In your pocket rests a compact little device, not a fully fledged phone or holo screen, nothing so fancy. Just a dainty little thing capable of sending text messages to a select few other devices. It would be quite easy to conceal, but you have never made an effort to do so, because you’re not a fool. After all, it looks exactly like the kind of device the other Gamemakers use to communicate with their personal assistants, and indeed you do use it to relay messages to Eridan. If one were to inspect it, one would find that the last message sent appears to be to him, simply saying, ‘_More water, please_’. A small marker next to the message indicates that he’d read it without deigning to reply, although he had gotten you that water after making you wait ten minutes just to spite you.

The last message you actually sent won’t turn up, because even if one knows how to open the _other_ messaging application, it is built to instantly delete all communication after it’s closed. A necessity, of course, since you’re not actually allowed to communicate with anyone outside of the arena control area at this time. And because your secrets are far too precious to share with just anyone.

If it were possible to read it, however, it would be brief, and not particularly helpful either: _‘On my mark.’_

If the message was still there the number of symbols next to the message would indicate that it’s been seen by more than one pair of eyes. But only you know that the words mean different things, depending on the recipient.

You stand above and behind Pods, gazing down at their monitors. On the other end of the room, Jane looks up at you, and one of her hands seems to still in anticipation. Nothing unusual at all, because it’s her job to anticipate you, but it makes you smile at her nonetheless. Her face, however, is set in stone. Nothing can touch her now. To her, this is just a step along the way. You assume she thinks this is more personal to her than to you, more selfish, but you know she’s wrong.

Lanque is still watching his own monitors, his hand raised in a gesture to wait. On the main screen, on cue, Jane switches to a camera focused on Jack Noir. He’s clearly heard the voices of the two tributes from Three, because neither of them are bothering to keep it down, bickering idly between themselves as they wait at the center of their web. He frowns, clearly deliberating. The boy had gotten a six as his training score, the girl a quite pathetic two. Of course you had not revealed the motivation behind this, but you do in fact take the physical condition of the tributes into consideration in those scores.

You can see Noir thinking that this ought to be easy, that even if there’s two of them there’s no reason to just go there and rid himself of another pair of weak opponents. But he hesitates. The confidence in those loud voices is all wrong, the whole situation too obvious a trap. He shakes his head, and you can tell he’s about to turn around and head away, when Lanque lowers his hand and you say, “Now,” in a quite measured, even voice.

This entire section of the arena, with its many ruins in various stages of decay, had been quite beautiful before you turned the lights out on it. It still is on the cameras, in a twilight kind of way, great big slabs of rock and disintegrated pillars covered in mosses and ferns; but it’s also rather disquieting, like the beautiful bones of some half-decomposed creature. Except no matter how dead it might look, this corpse can still move. On the map that the Pods team are watching, you seen a sprawling grid of lines interlocking every rock, every moss-clad hill, ready to be manipulated. Not for the grand finale, not yet; just enough this time, that the slab right under Noir’s foot tilts with his movement and pitches him forward, sends him rolling over the really quite soft greenery of a hill which is suddenly much steeper than before.

Once he manages to slow his fall, the two voices from before have faded, leaving an expectant hole for any small noise he makes to fall into; a silence far too vast to fill, far too shallow to drown in.

In the silence there is another sound as well, however. It’s the sound of running water, a cheerful clucking and gurgling which seems quite incongruous in the situation. Noir’s fists clench. He’s been walking for hours and must be quite thirsty now.

“Well well, who can it be?”

A quite grating laugh. “I don’t know, but I guess we’ll know once we see their face in the sky tonight!”

The boy has great self-control, you have to give him that. It’s objectively quite a horrifying situation, even if the commentary is somewhat over the top, and you wouldn’t have begrudged him a shiver or a single frightened look. But his face locks into narrow-eyed fury instead, and he draws his knife. He could still try to escape at this moment, the voices had rather seemed to invite him to, and even if the way is rough and would leave him exposed… well, it might still be the best option. Instead he lingers, apparently not out of fear or indecision, but because he must know that he’s not completely on his own out here.

As if he’d spoken his demand out loud, it only takes a moment for the parachute to appear, its single blinking light like a red eye in the darkness. Of course he has some powerful sponsors on his side. He has the highest kill count in the current arena, and he is mentored by the same person who trained the previous two victors. Even so, the truly exorbitant sum required to buy this gift is impressive. Only one pair of night vision glasses had been available to buy as a sponsor gift, and the price definitely reflects its rarity. He is now one out of three tributes to possess them, and that number won’t change until someone dies and their glasses are airlifted out along with their corpse.

Jack Noir scowls, clearly confused, but after a moment of hesitation he still puts them on. Even though his expression stays the same, you’re passing Physlocation on your way back to your seat, and you watch his pulse speed up on their monitors. Jane zooms in on his hand, tightening around his knife, right before he heads straight into the waiting trap.

* * *

It could’ve been water, that’s what you think as you watch the boy on the screen start to move. The sponsor gift could so easily have been water. It would’ve cost so much less, and would’ve given the boy from Two a reason to walk away. But of course you understand that sponsors are rarely interested in mercy, rarely invest in offering respite when escalation is an option. You had been an exception solely because they had wanted you to come out of there as undamaged as possible – and even so you’re sure that they had enjoyed letting your suffer, as long as you did it prettily. After all, they hadn’t sent you the medicine to cure your fever before you started vomiting and… emptying your stomach in other ways, and you have no reason to be charitable in assuming why that was.

Now you wish you could turn your face away, could avoid seeing what comes next, but you can’t. You’re not watching alone, and you don’t want the three who are curled up next to you to see how unsettled you are. It’s not that you’re above playing up your weakness to gain sympathy and safety; no, that’s practically all you do, isn’t it? But there is currently no protection to be found in their sympathy at this time, no escape in whatever activity they’ll come up with to try to take your mind off it. Their eyes, currently riveted to the screen in tense anticipation, offer you the one respite available to you now, because as long as you don’t move they won’t have a chance to appreciate the beauty of your suffering.

They too care only for escalation.

The boy from Two doesn’t rush, setting his feet down carefully, eyes scanning for snares and ambushes. For all the good it will do him. You feel like you might be choking on your own heart. A gift of water would’ve said, _Turn back_, and maybe it would’ve fallen on deaf ears but then again… maybe not. Yes, sponsors want blood, but it will only be delivered onto their hands through a messenger. You watch the camera cut to Jack Noir’s mentor, impassive as a rock. Though the scars are no longer there, the messages that had once been scrawled across Dirk’s and Dave’s skin do not speak of mercy. Does that man even know how to spell out retreat? Does he still think it’s possible to win?

There’s bile in your throat. You know that man doesn’t believe in winning. You have seen enough of his truth in Dirk’s eyes. It’s always the battle that matters, the certainty of fighting with your every breath, if only so that you know you’re still breathing. It doesn’t matter if it’s victory or loss, because to believe in an outcome at all is to believe the fight will one day come to an end.

But you are nothing but an outcome, nothing but a sad consequence, and you know you’re still breathing. You’re not fighting, you are swimming, and you know you haven’t drowned yet.

You know.

Jack Noir dislodges a heavy rock by stepping on it, and it goes tumbling down the narrow path he’s on. The rock lands on the place where the dirt has been disturbed, still a few feet away from where he stands. That’s why, when the mine goes off, it doesn’t simply blow him to pieces where he stands. But as you watch his body jerk as if hit by an invisible hammer, as he tumbles through the air as if bones and sinews are negotiable things, as he lands covered in dirt, his ears bleeding, and you can tell even through what’s left of his boot that his right foot looks _wrong_-

You don’t know how long it has been since you believed in mercy.

The camera cuts away, as the next entertainment begins.

* * *

You wake up at the sound of an explosion. The cannon. It must be the cannon. Your heart contracts and you try to gasp for breath, only to find you can’t. As your mind kicks into a panicked gear and you try to run, to flee whatever is weighing you down, you find that your arms and legs are restricted, as if iron bands were tightening around your body, rapidly turning the protecting tarp you’d wrapped around yourself into something closer to a shroud. You thrash, panicked sobs only barely crossing your lips because it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Something is around your neck. You don’t feel metal, not hands, but instead the slimy roughness of wet bark, the prickle of leaves. Horrified, you listen to the rustle around you, feel the world lurch and tilt, and you realize it’s the tree. The tree you’d fallen asleep in is wrapping itself around you, squeezing your body tighter and tighter as it shudders and lurches and… _moves_. It’s moving.

You’d think it would be louder, but the forest around you sounds like it’s simply caught up in a strong wind, the sound incongruous in the grip of the sweltering dead calm that surrounds you. Apart from the occasional low rumble of shifting earth, there is nothing to suggest what you’re absolutely certain of at this point. The whole forest is shifting around, as if a fiddler is playing silent music that only the trees can hear, and your easily crushed body has merely been caught up in the dance by mistake. Had it been set off by your presence, or is it just something that happens here every night, like a strange game of Statues where night becomes the signal to move?

This is just your mind freewheeling desperately as you try to avoid coming to terms with the fact that you’re going to die. Even as you manage to work your hands free, undoing the knot and unraveling the rope that binds you to the branch, your entire lower body is still tangled in the tarp, and you don’t have enough leverage to pull free. You claw at the branch pulling tight around your neck, managing to loosen it enough to gulp down some air, but it seems to serve no other purpose than to allow you to scream as as the huge branch starts to curl upwards and your whole body is bent double. Your bag, still strapped to your chest, is now squeezed tightly against you, the cooking pot inside digging into your ribs, a pain much sharper than the burning compression of joins and which therefore causes you to whimper in surprise.

And then… all at once, the thinner limbs holding you in place simply go slack. The whole rest of the tree is still moving, but the branches are suddenly lifeless as they one by one fall away. Even twisted up as you are, you hold onto your rope and your tarp as you wrench your body sideways out of the slowly tightening vice. You plummet headfirst out of the tree, slapped by flailing branches as you fall, and just as you’re used to breathing again, the air is knocked out of you once you hit the ground.

But you still have your things with you and nothing is restricting your limbs, and at the moment that’s all you can focus on. Stumbling to your feet and working your jaw helplessly until you can once again coax your lungs into expanding, you crash across the ground that isn’t really ground, that shifts around under your feet like enormous snakes. You must be covered in bruises now, from all the times you’ve tripped and slipped and tumbled down slopes, so more of the same barely even registers anymore. Branches whip you across the face and get into your eyes until you lift up the scrunched-up mess of tarp and rope in your arms and hold it in front of you. It’s not like you will see any less with it in the way, and you can take being hit across fingers and arms.

You keep going, not actually running but stumbling, in a constantly interrupted state of free fall where you just pass through the darkness without any sense of direction or time. You think you’re heading in the same direction as you had before you went to sleep, but honestly you’re just guessing. All you know is that after a while the ground no longer seems to be moving beneath your feet. You slow down but don’t stop, afraid that it might catch up with you. Not until you feel something brush against your legs, and reaching down seems to find giant ferns do you finally allow your body to slump onto the ground. Whatever the horrors of _this _place might be, they probably won’t be the same as the ones you left behind, and maybe you’ll be allowed to rest for a moment before they descend.

The footsteps that have been following you stop.

You sigh, starting to untangle your rope from the tarp, a predictably awful task in the dark. “Karako?” you say, as softly as you’re capable of. Your voice has never exactly been the gentlest, and some light morning strangulation followed by running for your life hasn’t done it any favours.

No answer. Well, what did you expect? He doesn’t speak, after all. “You were the one who cut me loose back there, weren’t you?”

Still you hope that he’ll give you some kind of sign, but once again your words fall into absolute stillness. Well, no matter what just happened, you suppose he has no reason to believe you won’t try to kill him. That’s only sensible – even if saving you was less so. It wouldn’t have been his fault, really, if he’d just let you die. Well, that’s not… obviously you don’t usually think like that, obviously standing by as someone dies and not even trying to help is a terrible thing to do if you were anywhere else. But this is the arena, this is the Games, and he’s only twelve years old. He could’ve gotten hurt, could’ve died, and surely no one would’ve blamed him if he didn’t risk his life to save yours?

You sigh. It’s not that easy. You know that.

“Thank you,” you say, finally able to bundle up your tarp and shoving it back into your bag. The rope you wrap around your waist over and over until you can tie it there without tripping on it. “I- I really appreciate it. You saved me.”

Still nothing. You get on your hands and knees and force your exhausted body to stand. You have some of the dried fruit left, but it’s not much, and since it’s the only food you have that’s made to last, you want it to make it stretch. So you need to forage. Your stomach feels like a tight fist clenching around nothing at all, and you’re tired, but with every step you override the impulse to give up. Hearing the light footsteps behind you pick up a second later, you feel something that might just be a smile pull at your lips. At least you’re not going alone, apparently.

* * *

You turn over and glance in the direction of the TV screen, massaging some life back into your jaw. It’s not the only part of you that’s sore, but that’s not new. From the even breathing behind you, it seems as if Dave is already asleep, and you don’t want to disturb him. In fact you try to look at him as little as possible, since he’s still naked, only barely covered by a thin sheet. You’ve never been shy about each others’ bodies as such, but man, there’s a time and a fucking place to be relaxed about that kind of shit. Right after you’ve once again seen way too much of what your brother looks like in the kind of situations no one should have to see their brother in period… yeah, that sounds like a great time to suddenly develop hells of modesty in a hurry.

Cronus is in the shower, and you let the sound of the running water drive your head down toward the mattress, still with your eyes fixed on that TV screen. Your patron had been in a foul mood, naturally, when his expensive gift had ended up being functionally useless, and the tribute he’d bestowed it on is now wounded and most likely not long for this world. He’d predictably taken it out on you and Dave.

Well, it had taken quite a bit of manipulation leading up to this point to get him to throw that really fucking stupid sum of money on a little rat like Jack, who doesn’t exactly have the appeal of being part of a matched set or, as far as you’re concerned, any other kind of appeal you can think of. But you’d worked on stoking Cronus’ pride in ‘making sure’ you and Dave won, as if he’s personally responsible for the two of you surviving all that bullshit just because he really wanted to suck both your dicks. Meanwhile Dave had worked the_ other_ angle. You make a face at nothing, sinking on your back as the camera following the boy from Twelve and his silent companion pulls back to show the tall trees and sea of ferns surrounding them. You don’t envy Dave that part at all. But Jack Noir, with his scrawny frame and fine-boned face, long black hair and large pale eyes, looks a lot… fuck you, but he really does look a damn sight younger than he actually is. Cronus likes that.

You hadn’t known why Rose had asked you to make sure he’d throw his support behind whichever District Two tribute seemed most likely, because helping Two win didn’t exactly seem like it was going to be a useful part of your plans. Two winning is hardly special. And now, when Cronus’ sponsor gift had ended up backfiring so fucking badly on Noir, you still are not sure. Had she planned on this? When you got her message and so appropriately were already in the rich asshole’s lap, practically pouring drinks down his throat, well, it hadn’t been hard to get him to push for the deployment of the gift. That had been before the stone trap was set off, of course, and you have to assume that Rose more or less personally flung Jack Noir down that slope, forcing him into a confrontation with one of the two land mine traps set up by the tributes from Three.

You have to assume this was part of the plan. That Rose is making sure to rig the games in favour of… well, there is really only one option, right? The blind girl. Terezi Pyrope. Someone who started out with all the odds against her, only to have circumstances gift her with a miraculous advantage. She’s just too good of an opportunity, and if Rose wants to use the Games to slowly change the mood in the districts over time, well, she’s a perfect start.

You wonder why Bro had decided to go ahead with the parachute. No matter what Cronus had said, he’s the one with the final authority on when and how the sponsor gifts are handed out, and he could easily have held off on it when it became obvious that Noir was walking into a trap. Did he just not care, is that it? Or had he concluded that the Three tributes would need dealing with, and it might as well be right away? No, that’s bullshit. Sooner or later the tactic of digging in and waiting will start wearing thin in the eyes of the audience, and the Gamemakers will drive those two spiders out of their little hole. There was literally no sense in attacking them while they still have their one advantage on their side.

Bro doesn’t believe in tactical retreats. You absently rub your left elbow, not because it’s actually hurting right now, but because you’re reminded of the dull ache that settles into it during winter. Had he just miscalculated? Had he decided that the principle of not turning back was more important than Noir coming out alive? Does he still think there’s a chance he’ll win this, even with a fucked-up foot, a bleeding gash right across his face, and who knows how much of his hearing left?

Your thoughts scurry around like mice in a flooding cellar, desperate to avoid the rising water. After a few more moments of this inutile and counterproductive horseshit you decide that enough is goddamn enough. You get up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you that no part of it actually feels ready to participate in this whole moving business, but it’s entirely instinctive for you to override it. Not bothering to put any clothes on, you hobble your sore ass out into the kitchen. You can’t actually do anything about what Rose is planning right now, or the fact that a kid from your own district is going to die for it, so you’ll focus on whatever you can accomplish. Like coffee, and a couple of painkillers for Dave when he wakes up. A shower, whenever Cronus decides to get out of the way. Surviving another day, with whatever means necessary.

* * *

The explosion had been far too loud to be the cannon. It left you scrambling out of your strange stony burrow, your spear clenched tight in your hand, but of course it was still relatively far from you, or you don’t think you would still have your hearing. So you’d set forth in the same direction as before, but cautiously, knowing it had come from somewhere to your left and not wanting to stray anywhere near whatever the fuck that was. It’s impossible to tell relative distances, to judge how far to your right the Cornucopia is compared to whatever it was that made that noise, and so going straight forward seems to be the only real solution.

You walk for hours, and nothing happens. At some point you cave to hunger and seek out water, thinking vaguely about fish. It turns out, however, that spearing a fish is in fact much harder than it sounds. Every time you plunge the head in the direction of a splashing sound, it seems it’s only for it to sink into the mud where, presumably, a fish had just been. But then your feet snag on something, and as you feel around in the lukewarm water you find something better than fish. You _do _recall this from the training in the Capitol. The round, unbroken leaves with the stems in the middle are right, and so are the shapes of the seed pods, which you end up gathering bundles of and dragging to the shore. Then you wade back out and plunge your hands into the water, digging through the thick mud until the air stinks of it, and coming back with plenty of thick tubers in your grasp. When you’ve finished you are dripping wet and covered in mud, but that doesn’t matter when you have _food_ to show for it.

You eat as much as you can of the lotus seeds and starchy roots, until you physically can’t force down another morsel. They would probably be a lot better cooked, but so would a fish, and at least lotuses smell a lot better. What you cannot eat you wrap rather haphazardly in a couple of the big leaves and shove into your pack. You don’t know how long they’ll stay fresh, but you’ll bring them with you for as long as they’ll last.

You _are _veering slightly right as you walk, you know, because the unknown danger of that explosion manages to feel more intimidating than the careers right at this moment. If you’re right about the direction you’re walking, it’s not like you’re likely to ever hit upon the relatively small clearing around the Cornucopia anyway – you will just be a bit closer to it than you were before. That should be fine, right?

The ground here is treacherous, all these big lumpy shapes of rocks jutting out of the ground make it hard to know where to put your feet. A brief examination with your hands had confirmed that a lot of them don’t feel natural, their surfaces too even, their angles too straight, meaning they’re most likely man-made. That would explain why there seem to be so many ‘caves’ all over this place, strange little burrows which seem made to shelter in. Because they quite literally are.

That makes you a lot more suspicious of them than you’d been initially, and you resolve to keep walking until you’ve left this area behind you. The maze had been time-consuming, forcing you to backtrack and walk in circles at times, but you’d still managed to cross it in a day. Surely this place will take less time, in that case?

It takes more hours, but you’re proven right eventually, as the ground evens out and your cane no longer seems to encounter any trees at all. The lack of shelter is, once again, not exactly ideal, but if that means you’re leaving the foreboding ruined structures and the source of the explosion behind, you’ll put up with it. The ground behind you is nice and soft, even flatter than the ground during your first day in the game, and there’s the smell of water hanging in the air. You can’t decide which direction it’s coming from, but it’s fine, if you keep walking you’re bound to find it.

Yeah. You sure do.

* * *

As it gets closer to evening, at least judging by the way the frog chorus grows more and more intense by the second, you start seeing lights. At first you think that you’re hallucinating, and then for a disoriented moment you think you’re seeing the stars, but they’re shifting too much to be stars. Finally you realize that it’s fireflies.

You almost smile. Of course you’ve seen fireflies before. You used to catch them with your mother during summer evenings when you were younger. They don’t actually offer any useful light at all, but somehow it feels almost like seeing an old friend.

Unless, of course, they’re some kind of horrifying breed of flesh-eating muttation fireflies. You wouldn’t exactly put the Capitol above pulling shit like that. You squint at them, but when they seem disinclined to swarm toward your body and devour you whole, you just keep walking. They’re all around you, so if they’re going to try to eat you, well, firstly they’re going to have to get in line behind the fucking mosquitoes, and secondly there is literally nothing you can do about it.

“Hey. Do you have fireflies at home?”

Still no reply from your shadow. You’re trying to keep your voice hushed, but you’re sure he must be able to hear you.

“I know this is the fucking arena and there probably isn’t a damn thing here that’s not meant to screw us over somehow, but… well, at least they’re pretty, right?” You sigh, watching their yellow lights ripple across the canopy above you. “Since I can’t see anything else… I know this sounds stupid, but- but I could almost pretend I’m at home.”

At first you can’t actually say that it’s your fault. It’s a complete accident that one of them lands on you, and then it just sits there, looking completely harmless. So you don’t brush it away, and a moment later it happens. They descend. Silently and slowly, not with a menacing buzz and not actually looking like they’re attacking, but falling like glowing snow from the trees, right toward you. In a matter of seconds you’re covered head-to-toe in them, bright little bodies that squirm around and outline your whole body against the night, unmistakably human and so, so vulnerable.

_That’s_ when you make a mistake. You can’t help it. Even if they don’t bite or really do anything at all, being completely covered in bugs that cover your face and your neck and you know that them glowing is dangerous, so dangerous… You scream. You scream and flail at them, trying to brush them away and crushing them between your hands and your body, but that only makes more of them land on you, as if they’ve been waiting for a spot to become vacant. You let out a panicked little whine, clawing at your neck when you feel the tickle of little bug legs _under_ your shirt, but there’s an endless goddamn supply of them.

You don’t see them coming. You only feel the ground slamming against your back, the heavy weight on top of you, and then their wild laughter. It’s obviously two of the careers, you can’t imagine who else would laugh in a situation like this. “Night night, Twelve,” says a boy’s voice, and you feel cold metal against your abdomen.

You feel something else. It’s the smell of rot, the smell of a bad wound. It’s a smell you’re so intimately familiar with, ever since you were a child, and you first started helping your father out with his patients. And it’s definitely coming from District One’s hand, which is pinning you to the ground.

You bite down hard. It’s absolutely not pleasant, and you almost gag on on the taste of pus as your teeth sink deeper into his infected hand, but the boy screams in agony and lets you go, you can hear him staggering backwards. You fumble desperately for the weapon he must’ve dropped, you _heard_ him drop it, but then a foot hits you squarely in the ribs and knocks you on your back. The girl from Four is on top of you almost instantly. With the both of you covered in fireflies now, you can see the outlines of her face as she snarls, lifting her spiked club over her head, and you sob and instinctively cover your face with your hands, as if they’re somehow less breakable than your skull.

The blow never comes. When you look up, you see something black and glistening sticking out of her throat, her face locked in a grimace of shock and pain. As you scream in panic and shove her off you, she topples to the ground, and a moment later the cannon goes off.

The boy from One is covered in fireflies as well, and he’s still unarmed. Though your view is partly obscured by ferns, you can just make out as he spins in a desperate circle, his infected hand squeezed tight in his armpit. He clearly can’t see his ally’s killer, but from the way he sobs, “It’s her, it’s _her_,” over and over, it’s obvious that he thinks it’s Terezi. Then he turns and runs.

You sit up, looking around, but obviously there’s still only darkness to be seen. Even more so than before, because the ferns are tall enough to reach well over your head while you’re sitting. Then you hear a quiet rustle behind you, and you smile.

“That’s the second time you’ve saved me, Karako.”

* * *

It only takes you a few minutes of walking before the ground suddenly gives way underfoot, and there’s the water right there, right under you this whole time. As you fall through the ground your spear is ripped out of your hand, and you’re left floundering wildly, your mouth filling with water because you can’t help letting out a helpless cry before you go under. And the water here is not like the ponds you’ve encountered before; it’s _deep_. You thrash around, trying to find the bottom with your feet, but there’s nothing there but grasping tendrils of some kind of plant. The water tastes bitter, like iron, and your lungs are already burning.

You don’t know how to swim. Of course you don’t know how to swim.

But the ground above you isn’t completely out of reach yet, there are plenty of sinewy roots trailing from it and brushing your fingers, and after a few attempts you manage to grasp it and pull yourself up. Your arms are trembling, your clothes and backpack having turned so impossibly fucking heavy all of a sudden, but you don’t know how to untangle yourself from them and there’s no time. You’re drowning. You can feel yourself drowning.

There’s no way back up. Where there should be a hole where you fell through, there’s just nothing, as if a lid has slammed back shut. The roots you’re holding onto are too spindly for you to pull at properly, and so the thick blanket of moss and vegetation above you remains impenetrable. You feel your thoughts starting to dissolve into nothing as you thrash about uselessly, all sounds seeming to come from far away, and you think… is this it?

Is it over now?

You could swear that you hear Latula’s voice, and maybe it’s not so bad after all. Maybe you can just… just rest a while?

Then your flailing hand finds a much thicker root. You clamp on to it for dear life, pulling yourself up inch by inch, scrabbling for footholds against its gnarled surface, until somehow you manage to gain enough leverage to push yourself through the moss. Your lungs are burning horribly, and as you collapse on your stomach you feel the water come pouring out of you, your body heaving and shaking as you force it out, desperate to just _breathe _but unable until you’re done.

You wake up. You can’t remember passing out, but you wake up. You’re still breathing, though it hurts. Getting to your hands and knees, you crawl slowly forward. You’d managed to find the only tree you’ve come across here, and it had saved you. A tree growing on top of water. Your mind moves slowly, your thoughts choppy and heavy, grinding away like clockwork that’s full of grit and dust. You don’t want to keep moving across this treacherous ground, you remember the terror of drowning far too well and your body is trembling uncontrollably, but you have no choice.

You slowly make it back to the spot where you fell through, careful to push your hands against the ground as hard as you can before you put the rest of your weight on it. Your spear is still there. You wrap your hand around it so hard that it aches, but you don’t get to your feet. With the spear pressed against the ground, perpendicular to your body, and both your hands on the shaft, you slowly crawl forward, hoping it will distribute your weight. You head back the way you came, although honestly you’re no longer sure if you're right about that. You have to hope you are. You need to get away from here. And then… then you’re heading for the Cornucopia. It’s time to start listening in on your enemies. It’s time to get out of this nightmare already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY that was v intense to write and i feel like gently lying down & dying now. love y'all <3
> 
> (did i channel my childhood fear of quagmires into this? MAYBE. listen, having my dad warn me abt how the ground could open up under my feet and then i'd drown stuck under a layer of unyielding vegetation sure did make me VERY CAREFUL about where i stepped - which was good, because there WERE quagmires close to our summer home - but it also lead to some unfortunate nightmares ahahahah.)


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